November 2006
Leaving Home
under construction.
Notes. Looking through
the Taylor Genealogy book I just received. Agnus Taylor of Scotland
now has something like 100, or is it 1000 descendants in this area.
The point being, families grow. A lot. Right there that tells
me why kids leave home--home can get crowded. Especially if anyone
has a personality. The popular line is, kids gotta go where the jobs
are. I'm not so sure about that. I think it's simple math.
Kids gotta go because we over breed, more than replace ourselves.
When the family farm gets divvied up, somebody's gotta go. No?
Recent
conversation with fellow asserting cities gotta grow (meaning get larger).
Do they? Is there such a thing as balance of growth and death?
September 2006
Too Many Minds!
Before
I left Idaho, one of the inmates mentioned how the former monk in our Friday
night group seems to be a bit of a mind reader. (Yup.) He reported
the asian had came over to him at work one day and said in his broken accent,
"Too many minds!!" (I could just hear him!) The asian's mind's
as clear as a bell. He is of One Mind, One Eye. We love his
prayers--for us, family, friends, and by (inmate) request. He prays
morning and night. His one mind is his heart. No one (except
perhaps a narrow minded evangelist--bless him or her) could miss his passion
and spirit. He avoids vexatious men. Once overheard him lecture
a fellow inmate not to react to taunts, get sucked into arguments.
It's a blessing to be with this "simple", happy man, this inmate, a teacher
by action, not words, though when they come out in awkward English, they're
often gold. His even, good nature speaks volumes. He laughs
when teased about his small size, or losing a wrestling match. No
problem for a master of One Mind. Too many minds--I'll never forget!
It is so.
Last summer
the obvious hit me--prison is simplicity practice--involuntary simplicity.
(Way back Bo Lozoff noted the similarities between ashram and prison life.)
Seems to me, those who surrender, simplifying minds as well as existence,
learn a lot. I'll quote a note I received from one of the men when
I find it in the boxes of my yet unsimplified life I've put in storage.
I consider this man a successful graduate of involuntary simplicity.
My worldly
life has been in 2 storage units a couple months now, being nibbled by
crickets and friends. At first I was ballistic about the crickets--actually
paying to have my stuff damaged! I'm not sure how I'll feel about
the holes in my favorite worldly attachments when I start opening boxes
in a few months. I've been talking to myself about impermanence a
lot, thank you, Buddha for the noble truths.
Sink or Swim
Though
it seemed like it might never happen, my stuff and I made it to Illinois
2 weeks ago. It's utterly surreal, returning after all these
years. Am I on vacation? Visiting? How does one go home?
This move
home feels like heavy, serious stuff, final exams; like Sink or Swim.
If I don't make it here--get along with folks, finding meaning, here with
the help of ancestors and family reputation, I won't make it anywhere.
Lord have mercy! Sometime in the final weeks of moving I put on grandmother's
mustard seed ears and vowed to wear them as long as needed. (Still
on.) I've also worn my "How Big is Your God" t-shirt from Fr Rohr's
Center for Action and Centemplation a lot (such as to Bible study with
the Baptists who disapprove on yoga.) I envision the church I find
or am found by my last--more on that.
One evening
the second week I was back in Illinois I went to bed particularly content
after spending the evening with high school mate Connie and her good buddy
Linda. Time slowed as we ate in my interim kitchen, then chatted
the rest of the evening. I'm enjoying these grounded women who "stayed
home". From the porch where we waved away bugs, cicadas called, end
of summer lightning bugs flashed. For this I uprooted.
Both women
attend their childhood churches; know who they are. They're not seekers.
They can't imagine why anyone would be visiting churches like I am.
(Just change your old one Connie suggested.) The folks who stayed
put are profoundly different from my experience Out West, where acquaintances
didn't "do" religion, answer phones or worry about thank yous. Nor
are these hometown folks seekers within their own religions. They
rolled their eyes when I mentioned attending a "Prophets" seminar this
summer and hooted, "Profits!" I could read their minds--why in the
world would anyone go out of town to listen to some priest or nun talk!
They already have all they need.
Food for
the soul, as I drifted off to sleep, full from easy company.
I'm missing
yoga and meditation and having a church home here in west central Illinois.
(For the record, we're hundreds of miles from Chicago.) The project
of finding a church home is underway--not obvious where I'm going to end
up, likely to take awhile. What will sustain me, surprise me?
Where will I feel accepted, useful? I envy people who drive into
a town, or walk into a church and know it to be home. That wouldn't
be me. I've probably visited/stopped by 10 churches, some briefly,
several for repeat visits. Small town, not a sea of choices; still
it's enough to keep my monkey mind busy--music, community, pastor?
I seem to be looking for a healthy church like I came from, where
people wanted to be there, where there was no way to get a seat in the
packed front section. Except for a couple of fundamentalist leaning
churches (not unlike my beloved, though uneasy Idaho church home) or the
catholic mass, what I've come upon is a few white heads scattered around
a huge old church with beautiful stained glass, with a frustrated, round,
middle-aged fellow trying to keep things alive without rocking the boat.
I think
of how the newly hired, retirement aged new thought minister in Boise said
he was loving his way through the challenges of a 50 some year old church
and its congregation. 8 years later he announced his (2nd) retirement;
the congregation was slightly bigger, a church move on the horizon.
After a year or so of the minister loving his way along I moved on, frustrated,
to a church that had started from scratch, with less feelings that could
be hurt, fewer benefactors to offend. Sometimes I'd go away bent
outa shape after cracks about new agers and gays, but I couldn't stay away
long because I sensed something right that I'd never experienced in any
group. I loved the way staff was willing to change, knew God was
in charge of everything from finances on. The music touched my heart;
I endured no kids stories, litanies of woes and praises from the congregation,
or ceaseless demands for money. Announcements were succint and the
practical message affirmed, inspired and challenged. My new church
made several expansions with a minimum of pleading for funds. Met
no one for several years until I found my home in the foodbank garden.
For something like six years I watched a 10 year church plant grow cautiously,
learn, mature and blossom. I love to talk about the church I found
by asking where there was a lot of singing. When I knew I'd be moving
I vowed to try not to be one of those folks who says "back in blah blah,
we did it like this...".
Neither
the slow moving older church nor the higher energy young church is better,
of course--it's all in what one makes of things, though they can seem rather
different. For a season, I chose to journey, support and eventually
join the church with younger roots, that seemed to take the winds of change
more easily, sniff the breezes for needs and address them quickly.
Ironically it's moral root/teaching was old fashioned, "conservative" bible
teachings (taught with love) which I seemed to crave in these turbulent
moral times, rather than the more open ended, contemporary teachings of
the older church. Truth doesn't change, but it sure can be taught
differently. Learned to hold my nose as needed and pray for the pastors
to know the Truth. Had to shake my head when the senior pastor remarked
he'd never heard anyone in the congregation dismiss another church in the
body of Christ. Bless him. Hear no evil. By the time
I left, the E world--environment--was being used regularly, along with
symbiosis and soil. Amazing. (I was still waiting for the M
word, Meditation, not to mention the H/homophobic word.)
And yet,
having been socially and verbally abused by leaders and congregation of
my beloved Jesus movement church (had I chosen to look at it that way,
which I obviously did on occasion) for teaching yoga, practicing Christian
meditation ("it's a cult", I was warned) and facilitating buddhist meditation
in prison (won't even go there), I hesitate to join another church whose
leadership cart blanche believes "liberals" and philosophies like yoga
are satanic. Been there, done that. Leadership is still human
even when outstanding. Even under authority, I heard the higher truth
when it was only faint. Finding excellent, mature leadership was
such a novelty and pleasure I stayed put. Know a good thing when
I find it, even if it took growth and maturity on my part--hallelujah!
Prefer
my leaders loving and wise, short on judgment, a combination I've haven't
found often. Prefer not to endure cracks about liberals, fundamentalists
or new agers; democrats or republicans; pro- or anti-life; men or women;
race or religion. Once I open my mouth, I'm sure to be on someone's
list, what with being childfree and all my quirks. I figure if I
bounce back to a church that accepts me and my yoga-meditation interests,
I'm likely to hear cracks about my old buddies, the fundamentalists!
Something of a no win situation, since there's no new thought church near
in which to hide. On and on, I list, wanting it all--community, music,
purpose and inspiration. Ha!
Even if
there are only christian churches around my new/old home, I still have
a foot in both christian and nonchristian worlds. (Too many minds?)
Today I saw on the internet that the unitarians in neighboring Springfield
host a zen meditation group. Sitting and walking meditation hold
such appeal (though they surely didn't make for community in Idaho).
Sounds insane to drive 30 miles to sit still, but I can't think of anything
more important than sitting (not driving). I'm an evangelist for
meditation. Lately I've not heeded my own counsel, so off I go Saturday
for a zen day in Springfield. Buddhist, pagan and christian are just
labels, like UCC, presbyterian, baptist and catholic. But no, with
the exception of a few buddhist, christian and other masters, like the
asian inmate with one mind, or Thomas Merton, each time I meet a label
I learn that one's best and other's aren't right. Can't stand it!
Lord have mercy! Don't wanna label, but want the community that can
come with it!!
I'll
likely be adopting yet another new church label/identity one of these days.
Is it too late to become catholic, though I don't think I is one?
Pretty sure I'm not episcopalian, baptist or Missouri synod lutheran, yet
I'm awfully fond of their members! Methodist or presbyterian has
never felt like me--but this time I'm back where I started, is it different?
Could UCC outlive me? Stay tuned! Fortunately I've learned
good enough can be perfectly good.
Practice
is what counts, Hindu spiritualist Gandhi's "My life is my message", folks.
Until then, we ougta keep clam, as Seattle's Ivar of clam fame says!
Meanwhile, I'll keep my heart open, wisdom antenna up, and do my best to
keep clam and listen up!
(PS remind me, now that I'm
home, to rap sometime about Why children leave home. Been giving
this some thought, of course, as well as why they go back.)
Coming soon--Thoughts on Emergency,
I mean, Emerging church!
Summer 2006 - Saying goodbye
Lord Have
Mercy!
Should
I survive, perhaps Ripleys would be interested in listing the World's Slowest
Mover. I've thought about this Midwest move for years. Publicly
committed, as the evangelists might put it, to moving last winter.
Realized it would happen in stages. Lo, it's the end of July and
I'm down to the last week of sorting and packing. (Fixing and cleaning
isn't even on the map, though I carry around the broken bottom lock for
the right french door, just in case I can find a replacement.) The
pressing job is to empty the house. Lord have Mercy! If I were
really saved, would Jesus do the packing? On the other hand, without
faith I wouldn't have been able to take on this move, even make the decision.
However, just praying and staring at a life time of stuff doesn't seem
to get the job done! Beloved child of god, Move Thy Feet!
Last week
I said goodbye to the 10am yoga class I've had since the fitness center
opened in 1999. We worked slowly and deeply on our backs, doing the
tie series as I call it--what I needed to do to relax. Perfect goodbye.
Afterwards several of us exchanged addresses. My job is to let go,
know that the perfect teacher awaits them, though I don't know who it is.
I've given them all I could. I've always found teachers in unexpected
places.
Friday
night I said goodbye to the felons, the light of my life! (see prison
page)
Everyday
is filled with goodbyes--a favorite restaurant or friend; old boxes of
articles. Kate helped tape boxes and left a fine feng shui gift that
will remind me of her. What an amazing, balanced woman; we've crossed
paths twice in the past 2 decades. Caryl and I lunched at Zen Bento
(a hard place to leave); she's been an excellent yoga friend, welcoming
me to workshops where she was the only face I recognized.
In the
final hour I met a wide awake fellow at church, who talks religion, who
hails from near St Louis, nat. We both carry little black and white
notebooks. He introduced me to his favorite restaurant just down
the street from the home I'm packing up. Never been there.
A few weeks
ago, walking in Garden City with neighbor Gary, ran into early Boise acquaintance
Eileen. We've had an unfinished relationship. Felt right to
reconnect and take a late night walk on our own a few nights later.
I like wrapping up things. Weird, perhaps. Not saying goodbye
is a hard one for me. Unless, I suppose, it's my choice! Which
it is with an old relationship that goes all the way back to the coast,
but just isn't all that comfortable.
More often
than not this summer I feel on the unsteady edge of mental health, forgetting
who's really in charge, full of worries about the move, and dark thoughts
about my addiction to things of the world that weigh me down during what
feels like this year of judgment. Thus the mantra Lord Have Mercy
has been bubbling up often. Don't know if I've ever been this deeply
depressed about myself, what with all my past strewn out on the floor.
Maybe. Maybe not. Yet another Dark Night of the soul--why stuff
is so important to me.
Richard
Rohr's Enneagram book is helping me understand what that challenge is about.
Ahh--books and food comfort.
Perhaps
not surprisingly, I seem to be a magnet for other neurotic folks these
days. One of my dear confused friends keeps phoning; I end up taking
on some of her confusion, incapable of being patient with her needs while
I feel so desperate myself. Another woman I just met started to tell
me her problems and I cut her off with an I gotta pack now! Then
she grasped, "Give me something you're gonna give away!" Dream on--I'm
gonna drive across town with some trinket! Not likely! Patience
and boundaries in my face. I feel like people are messing with me
everytime they say I don't have to go. Wrong! I'm a desperate
woman on Midwest Mission. Gotta go. Be helpful or outa my way!
Then someone
says the right thing at the right time, or best of all, lets me be, and
I breathe a little better.
Buddhism
teaches others are more important. I struggle with this, although
I'm sleeping remarkably well. I'm desparate, busy, sorting, hauling,
lifting, moving. Dr A picked up my anxiety on my last appointment,
putting me on a blood pressure remedy. Thank you! Should I
survive, I'll probably fall asleep in relief at the first rest stop out
of Boise! In some ways I'm so focused on this getting everything
out of the house phase of the move, I don't care that I don't have a definitely
home when I get to Illinois.
One of
the best things to come from this final packing during this record breaking
heat wave is that about dark I burst out of the house, to walk along the
Hill Road canal. I'm pretty much inside with the air conditioning
on all day so I'm unusually keen about this walk. Desperate, would
be the truth. It's still hot out, but do-able. I listen to
scurrying and rustling along the canal. The other evening nearby
owls called and clacked. (Alas the walk got squeezed out the last
few days.)
Another
less serious light side of the move is the need to use all the frozen fruit
in the freezer. Learned how to make a great berry soda with Blue
Bunny vanilla ice cream, soda water and the Braun mixer.
Keep calling
Uhaul, shifting the trailer rental date. Worked with Dan to put on
the trailer hitch.
Spring/Winter 2005-2006
Full Circle
Recently
at church, sitting in back, unable to see the pastor because I was in line
with a pillar, realized how "far" I'd come. As a newcomer I'd sat
toward the back of church careful not to be behind a pole. Then I
went through a season where I tried to squeeze up front between regulars
to see and hear better. I liked being near the musicians, seeing
the pastors' expressions and observing those who listened right under the
pastor's nose. Still, I never really met anyone to regularly greet
and competition for seats upfront was fierce; always felt like an intruder
on pre-existing claims. Got tired of being run off from long rows
of seats "saved" just in case family and friends showed up, which I observed
they often did not. Prime real estate empty where I'd tried to sit!
Eventually I gave up and sat randomly around the room. When a line
of folks I'd met through the garden folks hailed me to join them one Sunday,
felt I'd finally found home. After 5 years! Usually I'm saved
a place, well inside the long row, but I don't mind. At last I greet
and am greeted warmly.
I don't
even mind sitting in line with the pole so I have to use one of the two
screens on either side of the wide room, that originally projected song
lyrics, to watch whoever's speaking. Shift happens.
I've come
full circle. From sitting in back watching the whole church, to sitting
in back with buddies. I still listen, like a hawk. Only when
a pastor kicks into evangelical berating, does my mind take off and my
eyes roll. Not very often.
Since I
yammer and rave about church so much, folks who won't be in one 'til their
own funeral, and maybe not then, like to allude to my church friends.
I let the comment go. Yup, I'll miss church, lock, stock and barrel.
This church adventure must have been the reason I landed in Boise.
What a grand, interesting, healing adventure it's been. But as for
hosts of folks wondering where I am some Sunday, I don't think so.
Re-rooting
and Closing
Where am
I going with this?
Last fall
it became crystal clear that (right or wrong) rather than advancing westward
ho, I needed to re-treat, return to the midwest, move back to Illinois
roots. Not my idea, I insisted, must be a divine nudge that had to
become a push as I entered the final stage of my life. (Deep gratitude
for the practical, no nonsense Buddhist teachings on the inevitable cycle
of life and death.) I've apologized for being a midwesterner all
my life. I'm not an Idahoan and do not want to die here. Nooo.
Written that before.
Time to
uproot these shallow but wide shallow western roots. Gulp.
I've wrestled
with the midwest since mom's memorial March 2004. Once it was obvious
change was in order (like it or not) I began to share the idea with out
of state friends, where I've had support longest. I know well one
is wise to be careful with dreams and plans.
The idea
of the move consumes me. I wake up worrying and planning. It's
what's on my plate; I'm obsessed, but have written little except in my
head--so big! I'm frequently overwhelmed, beyond words. Who
can I mention it to?? I've shared with one neighbor, meditation group/christian
version.
I want
to model openness, but know sharing what's close to one's heart is often
risky. I'm careful to share unless I'm prepared for comments like,
"Why would you wanna do that [move]!"
Timing
is important. Since the new year, I've inwardly thought of all I
do in terms of closings and good byes. Since the few groups I'm involved
with here don't tend to get too personal--conversations always tend to
be about movies and tv--I listen for appropriate openings.
In February
I figured book club would be meeting at my home for the last time.
When no opportunity arose to mention the move, I blurted it out.
Conversation changed completely; felt we had some of the best discussion
in a long while.
Already
one yoga class is looking for another instructor. I know from my
sentimental, reflective nature, I'll miss yoga classes and church far,
far more than I'll be missed. Time to call on that independence that
has moved me so many times. And all the physical and mental strength
I can gather.
Vicky Penwell's
Proverbs 31 address to church women in February was a perfect closing with
women I began meeting at informal outdoor evenings under the grape arbor,
when I first came to the vineyard. I'd never known women like these!
Vicki's call to feminism, essentially from the view of a "third world"
midwife missionary, was the most compelling, balanced, I've ever heard.
How I love these women who walk their talk without judging others.
And those who've judged me on Jesus' behalf, found me unacceptable to serve
in the church ministry to incarcerated, prayed for me for teaching yoga,
called Fr Laurence's meditation a cult? Bless their fearful
hearts! What excellent practice loving those who are tough to love!
The gifts
and healing I take won't weigh a thing.
Behind Bars
Speaking
of the incarcerated, at some point I need to say good bye to being a prison
volunteer, to guards and chapel in house employees, and the men who are
still around who have come to the Friday nights Buddhist time slot.
I'm extremely fond of staff and the men in blue I've gotten to know as
I pass through the gates. I've prayed and racked my brain to know
how to make the most of the opportunity to share Buddhist teachings, to
serve by visiting the incarcerated. Medium security population feels
more unstable than ever; transfers regularly move men state to state, keeping
them uncertain, more on edge than ever. I'd love to leave Boise knowing
class will continue, but that doesn't seem possible. Outside of the
devout Asian, there's no strong in house teacher. At this time no
one even owns the Plum Village Chant and Recitation book that has served
as a basic text for a number of years. Interest is erratic.
Luckily spiritual teachings are right there to help me know I've done what
I can; the rest is in God's or Buddha's hands. I've loved the men,
been fed by their honesty and reaped that harvest. I'm keen to connect
with administration at the local prison in Illinois about volunteering.
It's my fervent prayer to share yoga some day.
Redefining
Multi-faith
Maybe it's
a good thing to say good-bye to the outrageous, multi-faith style I've
developed in Boise! The search for a tranquil mind has led me to
study and practice meditation wherever it's available each week--prison-zen-yoga-christian!
I'm certain I want a clear, relaxed mind. Any opportunity to practice
paying attention to body, breath and mind calls.
One recent
Friday evening I gave up going into prison in lieu of pot lucking with
visiting Zen teacher Leslie James. As I hoped, a circle formed and
Leslie began talking about issues of zen in American from her view as an
elder, if not, the elder, at the San Francisco Zen Center--to be or not
to be a priest; to take or not to take the precepts; to be a resident or
not. I was fascinated by her wisdom, balance and depth of view and
study. The evening felt like a perfect good-bye to the buddhist study
group folks I've whined about since I got to Boise. I don't even
know that there will ever be an opportunity to mention I'm moving.
Not that kind of group. I'll be listening for one.
The next
morning I sat with perhaps a dozen through Leslie's thoughts on what taking
precepts can mean. Then I dashed up the hill, eating left over Albertsons
pot roast, for a 3 hour class on shoulders with fellow Bay Area yoga teacher
Judith Lasater. I always enjoy Judith's lively teaching, even when
my ego doesn't. I feel more educated on shoulder safety, and most
of our shoulders got the workout of their lives.
Back to
the dojo to catch the last of Leslie's closing remarks. The day ended
with fish soup at Chan's, worship music at Calvary Chapel, hot tub and
bed, bed, bed, thank you, Beloved!
It's wonderful
both Leslie and Judith teach in Boise. I may never study with either
again. California will be much further from the midwest, no longer
a neighboring state. On the other hand, if I do return to workshops
with either--could be Boise I suppose--it will be a huge treat. If
I need a refresher from Judith--she regularly teaches in Ohio (as well
as other places I'm fond of)--I can find my way to new places. Something
tells me this next life ahead could be rather different.
The morning
following overlapping zen and yoga workshops, back in the world of Christians,
at the podium Tri bravely brought up global warming. He shared that
he can't help being reminded of the story of how frogs stays in water as
it's heated slowly, and die. It might take thick skin to wanna be
a Buddhist in semi Christian Boise, but I think it's absolutely heroic
to mention global warming and the dirty little green E word, "environment",
at a major evangelical church in Boise. Now that's an old
testament warrior! I don't even like mentioning the C word (church
or christian) in Buddhist circles!
Why do
I wonder why I collapsed Monday night, sick, and spent much of the rest
of the week sleeping!! I passionately believe in freedom of religion,
but it wipes me out taking advantage of it sometimes! Probably traveled
the emotional equivalent of several continents last weekend, all with mind
open, mouth closed! Gotta write my way back to health and balance!
Big Screens
Back to
the large projector screens either side of stage at church. Several
years ago, after visiting an uncomfortably slick Vineyard church in Colorado,
I wrote a rare email to the Boise church saying how grateful I was that
the Boise church just uses simple black and white words to project words
for songs. I expressed the hope we'd never have to read lyrics on
fancy distracting backgrounds. Famous last words.
Some months
back our screens moved into megachurch kingdom. What looks like an
iceberg from the March of the Penguins is the background for song lyrics
on the screen. Like other progress, fancy lights in the new hall,
ornate bathrooms, I denied and ignored what was happening. (Who's
the frog?) The way I look at it, I pay for these frills and don't
like it. Cinderblocks are good enough for me! Of course,
I understand how important it is to keep the sound bite programmed American
brain from drifting to porn or teevee. (Do I sound like columnist
Weekly Bill Cope?) However, having just read yet another article
on the ills of multi-tasking on the heels of having taken to bed sick,
I recognized how severely over stimulated I am, including visually, at
my beloved church. Still celebrating the stunning February talk Tri
gave on simplicity, I'm deeply disappointed to see my church move into
complexity in the name of serving God's addicted children. Huh uh.
Pushing caffeine and pizza is bad enough--have I mentioned that?--no, I've
been quiet for years.
Maybe I'll
end up on wooden benches with Quakers or Christian Scientists yet!
Competition evangelization pays a subtle, unhealthy price.
Billboard
sized signs only an idiot could miss--time to move on, Jeannie. Last
fall Tri stunned me when he talked about clearing out the clutter as though
one's moving. I sat on the edge of the seat. This winter he's
spoken on both moving on, and simplifying lives. Thank you God for
keeping all the tools I need fresh in mind. Before vineyard boise
seems any more passive aggressive, I'd better be on my way. I'll
always love this church that sings simple words (once on simple backgrounds),
in the people's key. Like, "Let My Words Be Few"--we haven't sung
it for months!
Bumped
into another old timer in the bookstore today where I was inquiring about
a "new" song I'd really liked, "Holy, Holy, Holy" (a contemporary version).
Its melody sustained me several gray weeks, until it drifted from mind.
We're onto new words and melodies, at the rate of a new song or 2 introduced
week after week. "What happened to the one about breaking chains",
Ken said. I immediately knew the one he meant. "Break these
chains and set me free", I said, making fists and the breaking gesture
I can resist with that line. "I love that one too", I nearly cried.
Ken doesn't complain like I do--no one complains--but he misses songs too.
I'm an elder in a short attention span, youth oriented world. Time
to leave the Church of Looking Good and go home, back to "Fairest Lord
Jesus". (Won't I be surprised!)
Letting go
Mike Freeman
gave the Sermon of the Mount today in street language, using terms like
Academy Awards, 20/20 vision and Shop 'til they drop. I'm slipping
away. Thank you God for loosening my grip on the Vineyard.
It's painful, but I understand. Yes, yes, time to go. Shift
happens.
Boise's
moving way, way, way too fast for me, for health and balance. One
February Tuesday I read headlines about 2 snowmobile deaths and 2 murder
sentences. Husband and wife collided with each other on snowmobiles;
one died. The young man who'd killed a roommate was sentenced to
something like a dozen years; the other, who appeared Afro American, was
given decades in prison. I shook my head. Someone's crazy.
Since it's not "them", it must be me. Gotta go.
If I relocate
to a population 1/10 the size of Boise, will there be 1/10 the problems?
Web headlines on Illinois oldest continuously published newspaper tell
me it's unlikely. I'll enjoy visiting the variety of small churches
folks I'm connecting with attend, searching for an agreeable choir or pastor.
One never knows where one will be touched, called. It'll be rich
exploring a smaller community, ricketier buildings and roads, much older
communities.
He leadeth me to green pastures
Fall 2005
All things
for good - Part 1.
Flew to
LA in August. Combined looking up mother's remaining sister in Anaheim
with a silent retreat with Father Laurence in Thousand Oaks and personal
retreat in Ojai. Braced myself for notorious southern California.
Grand visit
with Aunt Mona Ray and son in their home of all these years. The
following morning I was determined to find the mother Vineyard in Anaheim.
Awesome place, clearly heeding the call to serve! Deeply touched
by the sign language interpreter, the sort of thing I've miss from living
on the coast once upon a time. Loved glimpsing fields and freeways
from the sanctuary (no peaking at the world from Boise sanctuary).
Music was familiar and meaningful; good to have hispanics on stage.
The assistant pastor's talk touched me; the Nicene creed; plus Fairest
Lord Jesus! All bases covered! Lunched with a vineyard old
timer who filled me in on life in California. Interesting--never
have church company for lunch in Boise, try as I have!
Aunt Mona
Ray pointed me on north to World Community of Christian Meditation silent
retreat. Not exactly silent. We were asked to sing along at
the beginning of silent sessions! On campus, participants walked
around with cell phones and walkmen, and of course, many read. Not
like Buddhist retreats, though some of those are also permissive about
reading.
Don't know
what it was-- the relief of having found my way through Los Angeles in
a rental car; the beauty of the rolling hills, palms, morning fog and new
moon; the glorious stained glass of Samuelson chapel which I tried describing
as oceanic blues with splashes of golds, drops of purples, faces hidden
within it's clashing circles and lines; or the profound safety and acceptance
I felt at the retreat... The bottom line was-- I couldn't stay awake
during meditation sessions! Even ants nipping only woke me briefly.
(Talk about moral dilemma--taking life during meditation!) Early
or late in the day, I was out cold. Ach! Can I sleep like that
at home? No! Days and nights I rested deeply. The only
time I was awake, on the edge of my seat, was during Father Lawrence's
excellent closing question and answer session and his earlier talk on acedia.
Ah, acedia,
exactly... the tendency to give up, associated with boredom, weariness
and despair. Leads to infidelity of practice. Father Laurence
explained that remedies are patience, perseverance and community.
Or, chant the psalms, then read St John of the Cross' Dark Night of
the Soul to cheer yourself up, Father Laurence joked.
Onward
for a couple nights at St. Joseph's center in Ojai. Bumbled north
past the fine old mission and thrift shops of Ventura, to Ojai. Finally,
the real silent retreat. Thought of my room as a former monk's
cell. The handful of aging, quirky brothers left to manage the center
delighted me. Brother Andre, bless him, spent time talking to this
stranger about the center. The wisdom of someone so clear that hospitality
is a calling was a gift to this traveler. Father Hugo's decor around
the center was too wonderful for words. Bless him and the brothers!
Impossible
to tell retirement residents from brothers and staff (and for that matter,
visitors). We were all interchangeable. Brother Terrance, the
most colorful Irish character I've ever met definitely held dual citizenship.
Place of profound peace--hence the waiting list for assisted care.
Despite the population of residents with dogs, like head Fr. Hugo's ancient
hound, nights were silent.
The first
morning I explored the chapel, now unlocked for the day. The day
before I was in Calif. Lutheran University's awesome chapel; now a second
breath taking place of worship, in orange groves ringed by Ojai hills.
The simplicity of the brothers, the beauty of the country, images of Mary
and Jesus, the intensity of negotiating new places, visiting estranged
family, driving on packed highways-- combined to bring me to my knees in
tears of relief and gratefulness, for the freedom to wander, for loving,
lucid teachers, for people of faith and patience.
Later I
walked around the buildings, still teary, admiring amazing art and decor,
icons and relics. The spunky nurse who stumbled onto me asked that
no win question--what's the matter? Couldn't explain that things
were quite right! She meant well; so much for melancholy and reflection.
Later we talked. How I admire the strength of spirit that comes from
a life of service.
Before
heading back to Burbank took a quick looked around at the historic spiritual
mecca of Ojai--the Krishnamurti Foundation, Theosophical Society and Meditation
Point. Mighty fine country; no wonder I've heard about it for years.
Now Ojai's on my list of potential winter getaways.
All things
for good - Part 2 - Dalai Lama visit
In September
the Dalai Lama visited Idaho (Sun Valley)—can you believe it--the Dalai
Lama "does" cowboy Idaho! My gut reaction upon hearing this last
spring was: I wanna be at this backyard event. Followed by a quick:
Allah willing.
Failed
to get a ticket (free) through the Boise sanghas system run by a mysterious
person I'd never met at any Buddhist event, while those who were friends-of-friends
got 'em. Luckily river guide Mike acquired an extra ticket on my
behalf. Put Sept 11 on the calendar and come that weekend, headed
up to Stanley early. (Just in time to witness the last big fire and
the first snow of the season…) A few days earlier I learned the children's
event I'd “volunteered” ($28) to chaperone was heavy with volunteers; donated
back my ticket in order not to drive down to Boise to return by bus the
next morning!
A few weeks
before the Dalai Lama's visit, while working in the church garden, a darling
young mom asked if I was going to the women's retreat (the same weekend
as the Dalai Lama event). Since I hold a high standard of truth around
those I garden with, I paused, prayed and said I'd be hearing the Dalai
Lama that weekend. Gulp. (An even higher truth might be that
I didn't feel called to the women's retreat the way I felt to Sun Valley.)
I can still see her widening blue eyes and hear her incredulous response,
“But the Dalai Lama's going to hell; he doesn't know Jesus!”
Is there
a simple way to explain it's my path to be at home with all religions?
Buddhism is just another way to teach a moral code, the anthropologist/mythologist
in me wanted to say. I guess I couldn't stay at church if I wasn't
in denial, didn't have faith in a huge God and the teachings of
Buddha, and believe in continual prayer!
How absolutely
unbelievable this kind of thinking is to me! I kept “The Dalai Lama
isn't here for himself, he's here to help others!” to myself. Is
that The Difference—the DL is here to help (others), whereas Jesus came
to save (others)? Is that the semantics we're killing each other
over?
A blessing
of camping in the snow was holing up in the car, finally reading Thich
Nhat Hahn's Living Christ, Living Buddha. Along with other
helpful insights about sangha dysfunction and uprooting of generations,
I was especially affirmed by Nhat Hanh's understanding that every tradition
provides a spiritual root. Since I feel no conflict about following
both Buddhist and Christian teachings--even a bit of yogic tradition--I
too must have two roots! (No comparison to the depth of Nhat Hahn's!)
He wrote, "I have shared the Eucharist with Fr. Daniel Berrigan, and our
worship became possible because of the sufferings we Vietnamese and Americans
have shared over many years." Apparently both Buddhist and Christians
were shocked by the statement. Loved his metaphor re: mixing religious
traditions: “Fruit salad can be delicious".
I was delighted
and blessed by the afternoon with the Dalai Lama in Ketchum--no comparison
to the time I drove to Salt Lake. This time I could both hear and
see His Holiness, although my ticket didn't permit me to sit up front with
the friends of Boise Buddhists, who were right under his nose. Politics—ach!
Who you know!
I was impressed
by Kempthorne's succinct introduction; fascinated by sponsor Krill Sokoloff—he
had a smile as big at the Dalai Lama's; and blessed by His Holiness’ beaming
presence, simple thoughts and humor. The day was beautiful, if hot
after the snow I'd just cowered through. A colorful backdrop hung
behind the stage, which then had hills behind. Beautiful.
The crowd
was well mannered, as modeled by volunteers and staff (run, I learned later,
by the professional event managers used at the Salt Lake Olympics.
When I returned to fetch the gray shirt I'd left behind--which ended up
being left once and for all on an plane a couple weeks later--I was treated
with unusual patience and civility, the hallmark of the whole event—compassion.)
Thank you,
Buddha Mike for the Dalai Lama ticket. (That I thought we'd cross
paths is a perfect example of delusion. Spirituality-wise, friendship's
on my plate this year, but that's a ramble for another time.)
Trendy
as Buddhism is, I was still curious about the huge turnout to see His Holiness.
Outside of the Vietnamese community in Boise, there can't be more than
a few dozen serious Buddhists in the Boise area—so, who were these hundreds
of people? With Thich Nhat Hahn on my mind, I mentioned him to the
neighbor I befriended for the 2 hour wait before the talk. She looked
blank, then affirmed my hunch that most folks were just curious.
As we rode the shuttle back to the parking lot we met a Tibetan from Portland.
Good to meet one of the serious Buddhists from afar.
The Dalai
Lama asked us to practice compassion, kindness and patience, to get a good
night's sleep, and to spend time with our children. He spoke particularly
firmly about the latter. Would it be considered judgment on his part
to say that it is good or wise to spend time with our children? Americans
don't do enough with their children he observed. As I see it, we
need the Dalai Lama, a foreigner, a Buddhist, to remind us of simple truths!
We can hear them in any spiritual tradition if we listen, which
was the key that Karen Armstrong (below) stressed—we must listen to each
other!
How can
I not respect Buddhism, I ask defensively, when I hear the words and wisdom
and sense the holiness and peace of the Dalai Lama? How can millions
of “Christians” dismiss the Dalai Lama as bunk, or worse, evil-- when
they've never stopped, looked or listened! Ach! I know
holiness when I hear/see it. I can't call the Dalai Lama anything
less than Holy. I will not evangelize, get in faces, but I will not
say anything less of him or other faiths.
Three
weekends later, my dear church sponsored a “creation” seminar a.k.a. Genesis
lecture; euphemisms for anti evolution, fundamentalist lectures!
I was taken back—hadn't we been going along ok under the leadership of
a onetime biology teacher? A. Apparently not. As I worked
at the recycle truck the Sunday morning the seminar was introduced, I overheard
pastor say he was nervous. Afterwards I thought-- well he should
be! Silly me thinking the Scopes trial was history in Idaho.
No way. Alive and well—in my church! Practicing the golden
rule and listening to both sides, made it through the service, though I
wanted to leave. Name one fundamentalist who'd spend equal time listening
to the Dalai Lama!
There's
a manipulative technique I very much dislike which pushes for agreement
with something “simple” (to which I often take exception) then leaps to
the absurd. Grrr. The seminar presenter from down under was
a pro. Watched heads nod enthusiastically. I totally missed
what the presenter said about dinosaurs and apes, since I don't have a
problem with those critters one way or another in the geological timetable,
having been an enthusiastic paleontology student a one time.
Frankly
I hadn't thought the vineyard was that conservative. Surely there
were others who thought the seminar was out in… right field-- pastor's
gonna hear ‘bout this! But the following Sunday it was as though
the seminar never happened. Hmm. Was it tolerance from the
congregation or naiveté on my part for thinking others might find
the seminar...uhh... regressive.
Afterwards
I remembered there's always a reason church leadership does things.
What in the world was going on? Recruiting conservative young breeding
families to get financially behind the Phase 3 nursery? Surely not!
(Speaking
of families… I fantasize a bumper sticker that says, “My pastor drives
a small car” or “My pastor has only 2 kids”, “…or only 1 dog”. Notable
when other pastors have closer to a half dozen kids.)
Two nights
after the Sunday morning Creation Seminar sales pitch while the seminar
was on it's final night), I drove down to BSU to hear religious scholar
Karen Armstrong speak. Traffic was like a football game! Began
“getting it”—the creation seminar must have been a backlash response to
visits of the Dalai Lama and Karen Armstrong. Nothing like a good
seminar to remind us God created the world in 7 days and we're not related
to apes. The line waiting to get into the student union ballroom
was like nothing I'd seen in Boise! Sonja Henie's tutu! Headed
up front as soon as we got inside the huge room.
Karen Armstrong's
timely mission to put religion in perspective makes her one of the most
perfect job fits in the world. What a lucid speaker, clear mind and
compassionate being!
Armstrong
asserts fundamentalists believe their very existence is at stake.
I sensed her audience that evening was looking to hear that fundamentalists
are wrong, and they, those in the audience were “right”. We want
so badly to hear that. We didn't. Unlike creationists, both
Armstrong and the Dalai Lama (learned she moderated the clergy dialog)
diplomatically avoided judgments that keep us from world peace.
I'm under
no illusion about Armstrong's popularity. It too is a form of backlash.
Her convent drop out history and profound understanding of fundamentalism
attract anti-Catholic, anti Christian and the anti religious curious and
hopeful. Trying to compare the whopping turnout to hear her with
the fervor of the creation seminar would be like trying to compare apples
and oranges to a lover of one, but not the other--entirely different events,
yet with the common ground of needing to feel safe and right.
Absolutely,
the polarization in religion is about fear. “They/we” are afraid
of “others”.
The Dalai
Lama is not afraid. I don't want to be afraid. I don't want
to be afraid for what I believe; however, I am definitely uneasy about
expressing my beliefs.
Nor do
I don't want to be afraid to change the way I think, like the Dalai Lama
mentioned. Willful as I am I hear the wisdom that we must be able
to change! It's taught clearly in Buddhism. It's also taught
occasionally as the upside down kingdom in Christianity. Same, same
to me. Only takes one teaching, one practice that size to keep one
busy forever!
All things
for good - Part 3 - Lives changed in prison
Yet another
highlight of this rather heavy spiritual season: my first volunteer appreciation
evening at prison.
The chapel
was decorated like a birthday party, or Easter, in greens and pinks!
Classrooms had been converted to cheerful eating rooms, as had the library.
The hallway was hung with hand made banners celebrating volunteers, including
a covered mirror you were asked to peak under to see who was being appreciated!
Not only
had the chapel been physically converted —I was overwhelmed to think how
much had to be moved in and out—the regular prisoner/offender staff/helpers
beamed from ear to ear, hustling around in their usual blue jean and shirt
outfits, wearing hair nets, carrying trays of prison food, greeting us
with undisguised enthusiasm and delight.
The LDS
volunteers I knew made sure I met their wives. I waved at the motorcycle
saviors. Recognized and spoke with Temple of Light volunteers.
20 plus year volunteer pastor Mike Trent talked with everyone, even a big
hello to me. At dinner, I sat with an Hispanic American who'd learned
Spanish in order to hold Bible study, which he has for 20 years; and a
new Prison Fellowship volunteer and wife. Having missed lunch because
Chan was closed I was delighted with PenDyn spaghetti. Wish I'd passed
on the chocolate cake. Too much.
We moved
to the main chapel for a program of testimonies and music, ably moderated
by an inmate of 15 years. The motorcycles for Jesus team sat in the
back row. Started to sit with Mormons but switched to Temple of Light
when one of the men who comes to meditation showed up and went to sit with
the “pagans and wiccans”. Who am I? None of the above!
All of the above?
Learned
inmates were invited based on program attendance; those who came to the
program missed supper.
The program
was a chance for the men in blue to thank volunteers for coming into prison.
Thank us profusely they did. Mainly in terms of having Jesus in their
lives now thanks to various ministers, but not always. A Wiccan and
a Temple of Light rep told us how their lives had changed. Several
inmates expressed appreciation for the diversity of volunteers. One
went so far as to say he believes we all have the same God. Or was
it Christ. Liked that a lot. Vote for that man!
Several
men mentioned that volunteers are the only visitors they have. I
could relate. That would be me if I were in prison. There but
for grace.
Winced
when the moderator said there was time (there really wasn't) for more testimonies
knowing what a talker the fellow who comeS to meditation is. He was
recognized, headed to the podium. I hoped not to be mentioned, but
after thanking Temple of Light, he pointed to the “Buddhist lady” (in her
bright green and black print dress). I was certain I heard snorts
and guffaws from the bikers in back. I must enjoy the derision of
being different; I could chose not to study Buddhism or, better yet, chose
to scoff at those who study it. Instead I hang on the cross like
Jesus--uhhh-- forgive them, they know not what they do.
Tom was
articulate, but had to be given a time's up (not the only man unable to
stop talking). Some of the testimonies were so perfect, unaffected,
short and sweet, they could only have come straight from above, through
grace. Very powerful.
The entire
evening was “tasteful”, nothing lewd, off-color or inappropriate, unlike
out in the world! I loved it.
The moderator,
a good looking fellow, who stood straight, emceed excellently, even if
he got the lineup out of order now and then. He told well short stories
about long time volunteers. His wrap-up story however, was a perfect
teaching story I'll not forget. Roughly: an unsophisticated group
dines with Calvin Coolidge, doing everything just like the president, in
order to appear acceptable. Right down to pouring coffee, cream and
sugar into a saucer... for the cat.
Throughout
the evening, I was in awe of the obvious—here is where The Men in our society
are. Not only is the religious activities coordinator a very attractive,
personable man, and the warden a savvy, sharp looking young fellow, many
of the inmates are attractive and enormously talented. Of course,
humans have those qualities. These men are not exceptions.
Undoubtedly the men who work in the chapel and put on the evening are more
“together” than most incarcerated. The point I'm trying to make is:
our men are behind bars. A huge amount of energy is locked up.
The enthusiasm with which the inmates put on the evening demonstrated how
very much men need a purpose, a job.
That's
one of the biggest lessons I've learned at church--how badly men need to
do something that needs doing, which in turn makes them feel useful and
needed, gives them identity; a spectacular win-win situation. I've
seen men bloom when they have a project, or are put in leadership positions.
The simplified way I see it, women have children and maybe husbands.
Since men don't quite do that, they thrive on projects and challenges that
are different. If they can't go out and kill an animal to feed the
family, what can they do? Give ‘em a building to tear down, a roof
to reroof. They need to be doing in order to know who they are.
Stewing
in prison may or may not help. Prison helped the men we heard from
that evening.
As we 60
or so volunteers piled back through the gates on the way out, ChiEShiNa
and I agreed it's sure interesting who's friendly among the volunteers
and who's not. He stays on the high ground also. We didn't
ask how “real Christians” could be so unfriendly. Fr. Andrew commented
how excellent the moderator was. Indeed.
How “Christians”
have the energy, not to mention heart, to bad mouth the world religions
is beyond me, when they are so busy dueling among themselves—Evangelists
v Catholics v LDS v Christian Science v Religious Science v Nazarene v
Pentecostal v traditional denominational v nondenominational, etc.
Not to mention Jewish and Native American traditions.
Last year
I asked to be removed from Prison Fellowship (PF) mailings after a staff
person expressed his opinion that Christian Science wasn't Christian, and,
for that matter, the vineyard is kind of borderline. PF does wonderful
things in prison. They cashed my “unsaved" check.
It's one thing to be judged
by God, but to be judged on God's behalf or to have one aspect of the body
of Christ judge another is simply too much for me to support.
John O'Donohue
simply says: Pray for all. Yes, yes. Pray.
Summer 2005
Merton to
the rescue
Yet another
micro crisis built like a late afternoon cumulus cloud in a summer sky,
from the same old stuff. I need to let it rain, write through it.
Thomas
Merton is my inspiration this time. Holed up in the fly and bee bombarded
gray REI dome tent last weekend and started The Intimate Merton: his
life from his journals. Validating life through writing!
Amen.
Among other
things, I let yet another new “christian” offset me with his stock but
Jesus is the only path to overcoming suffering. Get tired of keeping
my passion for prison to myself; stuck out neck and mentioned how much
I enjoy prison sangha (the light of my little life.) “You don't teach
buddhism!” my friend exclaimed. “No way”, I responded truthfully,
“I just facilitate the group a bit, make sure we sit, walk, read, discuss
and pray so that everyone gets involved. I'm just there to love like
Jesus said.” The more my friend suffers, the tighter he clings to
his new party line, abandoning more of his life experience and wisdom,
the best of who he is, becoming like a filleted fish, as Joseph Campbell
calls it. Bless us.
I was startled
the night before at prison sangha the men chose to read a section in Thich
Nhat Hahn-- 5 ways to deal with anger. In my mind, Jesus smiled,
beamed even. Afterwards the fellow who is spending time with “Christians”
nodded enthusiastically, “Yup, that's mercy all right”. Sounded like
mercy to me too, the advice that the sage is compassionate, no matter what
actions, words or hard hearts s/he encounters.
Father
Laurence says meditation is a cure for fundamentalism. Bless us our
church for keeping folks busy. Not exactly so new folks don't sit
still, hear or know the truth of oneness, though I sense that happens.
But to get us away from our self centeredness. But too often we end
up feeling smugly saved, thinking everyone else, no matter the denomination,
is wrong, unsaved sinners, infidels, hell bound. How outrageous!
Oh, the arrogance of “better than” which separates us from each other,
from God! My beloved church! Luckily I know why I chose this
imperfect church. I can't easily name any church or group of more
than dozen that doesn't think they're right and everyone else is wrong!
Jesus wept.
It boils
down to how much energy does a group invest in criticizing and trying to
convert others, worrying about others instead of accepting folks “as is”,
then working to clean their own stable! I'm at the vineyard because
leadership does a good job of finding the middle ground, tolerating the
narrow spectrum of folks I currently fall into. My antenna is ever
alert for tolerance and truth. (That's why controversial falun dafa's
motto's on my car—Truthfulness, Benevolence, Forbearance!)
Or maybe
it's the music. Yesterday visiting elder Randy Larsen explained how
the vineyard music began by repeating simple lines. Yup, exactly
what I appreciate; simple music brought me in, followed by a simple service
in a plain building, and lucid, unpadded teaching. Something right
about that (for me, nat). If I can't find Gregorian chant, this'll
do.
For so
long our church has opposed the two things that give me peace—nature and
silence. Suddenly and recently we're starting to getting the family
out into nature. Our new art gallery celebrating God's creation is
breathtaking. Yes, yes, God's creation, Our responsibility!
As always
I continue to overlay all sorts of micro interfaith adventures-- buddhist,
christian, yogic, even LDS. Zen one morning, church the next.
Mormons at 10am; Jesus evangelism at noon. So it goes for this monastic
shudda beena. If I'm to practice sitting and breathing, then it's
yoga, buddhism, or christian meditation outside my church. If I want
good clear teaching, it's back to church, or a visiting teacher, likely
in the zen tradition. If I want to be with a big group of friendly-ish
folks, enjoy warm conversation and connection, church is my best bet aside
from prison sangha.
The other
weekend I got up and left a loud dinner gathering early. Outside
the new moon hung below clouds just above the mountains. Even after
all these years—60 this year--I'm still puzzled why I don't enjoy the usual
popular activities (tv, parenting, movies, rock music, D&A.)
Instead of meeting the group for Sunday breakfast, I wanted to be with
people of faith. Looked for the nearest church with cars. Felt
good to sit on the floor for the last part of what must have been a packed
LDS service, to be with people who cared enough to gather together, to
be reminded of the truth, to greet each other, including this stranger,
warmly.
Young acquaintances
try interest me in their worlds, careers, making money. They want
me to work with children, help save the world, the environment; they want
me to try products. (Older acquaintances try to interest me in medical
procedures, myths of aging, long term care insurance!) As I start
my 7th decade I'm clear my focus is inward, monastic, meditative.
Turns out my life isn't about skiing and climbing mountains ‘til I drop
as it is for many I've met along the way! Instead I've turned downstream
to follow the cycle many Americans swim against. I don't need to
be the best and strongest to be ok. But I do need peace of mind.
Oh, I'll be more proactive about working muscles, having just read some
Paul Grilley articles in yoga journal.
For serious
Buddhist meditation, Friday evening prison continues to be my preferred
sangha. If I have a choice of who to spend a couple of hours with
locally, where I feel most comfortable, accepted, challenged and rewarded,
the felons get my vote more often than not. Food's better the next
morning at Control Freaks Anon/CFA (if only we openly addressed our unspoken
common bond!) Recently awoke and realized recently CFA doesn't really
want me offering to make a pot of green tea or bringing homemade goodies
to their strong coffee/commercial muffin gatherings. How could I
be so dense! First I butt in on a close and closed social circle;
then I tried to change a menu that works, no matter how hands tremble.
Less eye
contact and connection with CFA this year, and one harsh, out of the blue
verbal attack when I tried to joke. Recently one of the group was
brave enough to mention they'd already given out the dozen tickets to the
Dalai Lama they requested. I was stunned—there aren't even that many
of us at a get together! No wonder eyes avert. Bless us.
Now, who's trying to swim upstream! That would be me. My Seattle
buddy is right about the obvious—Idaho, not a good fit. Duh.
Of course
I mentioned to prison sangha, during the anger discussion, I have by far
the most anger towards my own family and local non-prison sangha, those
with whom I most hope to practice transparency and honesty. Bless
the felons for saying you're important to us, you should see the Dalai
Lama.
They're
quite right—I care a lot about meditation, enough to cross town Friday
nights, to sit and walk for my own sake, and to encourage others to do
so. I care about each one, which is why I ask about those who don't
show up. Not to make them feel guilty—a hair trigger--but because
I care. They are the community that supports me, along with each
other. I want them to understand what a difference this makes.
There is
more to the Dalai Lama ticket story. Although a sangha wife networked
on my behalf, the Buddha supplied me with a ticket connection via the bigger
Idaho sangha, not local.
I love,
no need, the way buddhism unabashedly teaches about and practices death.
Altho Christianity teaches love God with all your heart and mind and not
to worry, I don't hear much about how to die, so I turn to buddhism for
support living and dying well. Seems more practical. It's obvious
to me most “Christians” are terrified of dying, may spend years undergoing
medical treatment, hospitalization, etc. Buddhists seem better balanced
in that arena I'm approaching. Where do I look for support during
towards the end of my life? To teachers of the East. (Of course
Jesus came out of the to East.) Not much interests me more than East
West dialog.
I've been
thinking about community in terms of the parade of teachers through Boise.
One student, one teacher, one tiny sangha, each hoping to build a center
for their own teacher/practice. More and more I realize each student
with their teacher is yet another cry for understanding perfection and
control issues. Bless each of us lone practitioners, “too good” to
join an existing group. Ain't we a piece of work! No way am
I jumping ship from my masters teachers Ken Cohen or Father Laurence!
Outside these micro sanghas, thousands of Idahoans suddenly think they
want to see the Dalai Lama!
Recently
yet another martial arts teacher moved to the area, bringing his studies
of the truth. Dialoging with him I saw how I'm looking for community,
not teachers (teachers I've found). And, interestingly, prison is
the most transparent community I know, where I get support.
One of
the major sanghas in Boise is under stress, whether they admit it or not.
I heard one of their visiting teachers challenge them to get back on track.
I liked the way she concluded the popular teaching story of an abbot asking
a neighboring “rabbi” how to bring his monastery back to life. She
put it this way: “Treat each other like Buddha.” Simple, eh?
(Christians tell the story as “Christ is among you”; Benedictines simply
vow to “Treat everyone as Jesus.” I heard her loud and clear—treat
others like Buddha. Yes!
Why don't
we practice treating each other like Buddha? Why do we psychoanalyze
marriages, discuss children and dogs, especially other peoples’, but not
honor the buddha in each? Where's the practice group? Where's
the local teacher?
This brings
me to the peace I experienced at Ascension monastery. Nooo, not perfect
of course; the monastery is dying slowly into something else as brothers
die off, leave and aren't replaced. Nonetheless peace and acceptance
touched me deeply, profoundly. No “us and thems”; just people practicing
acceptance, watching language and thoughts. Treating each other like
Buddha, Christ and Jesus. Nice.
Around
that time I had my recurring wrong track dream. Sometimes it's a
bus line, sometimes some sort of train, heading north usually. Can't seem
to get across all the tracks to get to the line that takes me back south
towards the center of the town where I should be. Yup. My life,
in a nutshell: frustrated because I think I'm headed away from where I
oughta be. Had some good times on the bus, met cool folks.
Wrong way tho. So it seemed.
Thank you,
Thomas Merton, for permission to live through writing.
Spring 2005 - Shift
happens!
Multi - faithing
in Idaho -- All About Me
Just emailed
a web correspondent how the task of writing up adventures in Idaho religion
becomes more and more daunting. Hiking the spiritual path is what
I do these years-- attend church regularly, occasional retreats and meditations,
both Christian and Buddhist; read about religion; listen to speakers and
recordings with spiritual flavors; practice yoga; and work with chiropractor
who believes spirituality is one leg of the triangle of health. I'm
always at it, processing, re-learning, connecting dots.
This snowless
winter I got help balancing East and West, via the wisdom of Joseph Campbell
(much as last winter Laurence van der Post guided me through those murky
waters). In the new year Monday evenings I joined a small group of
unitarians watching/discussing the Mythos series, returning me to my anthropology
roots. Back home I rewatched or just listened again. How I
needed Campbell's reminder that myths and stories of all times, cultures
and religions are stories filled with symbols! From American
Indian tales to Scripture and Sutras to King Arthur, stories aren't literal,
but stories! Of course not. Furthermore, no matter the origin,
they're all remarkably the same! Campbell's wisdom, passion and humor
were a balm for this frazzled mind always trying to reconcile opposites
in a polarized world. As happens when I hear or sense deep truth,
found myself profoundly touched, breathing more freely. What a relief!
One weekend
I sat with one of the newest sanghas in the area when their L.A. teacher
visited. The basement space was agreeable although I sure wanted
to place something "interesting" in each of the window wells. The
teacher didn't actually sit or walk with us much; individual counseling
seemed to be his interest. My mind raged all day, never settling
for a moment. It's true, I've always fought the idea of facing a
wall, never knowing my neighbor, never connecting with anyone. Who
needs it! Lunch too was silent. The clincher to the uneasy
day was observing precision lunch procedures--everything arranged and cleaned
with military precision. Zen, perhaps, but not for me--perfection
and a teacher not sitting with students (enjoyed dharma talk). I
enjoy experiencing teachers of all ilk who come to the area--discover gems.
By late afternoon, I surrendered, and began jotting notes during the final
meditation. I'd flunked; might as well make poetry of it. By
then I'd decided, that although I don't feel energy in typical ways, it
was clear the space and experience were wrong for me. (How others
fared--I'll never know) :
Leaping Lamas!
Tons of Teachers! What a smorgasbord!
Treasure Valley's raining
rimpoches, seeping senseis!
Teachers and teachings
ricochet from venue to venue.
We've tons of teachers,
piles of priests, pastors and practitioners;
Mounds of monks and ministers;
stacks of students.
Treasure Valley seethes
with sisters, bubbles with brothers and bishops, feasts of fathers, elders
too.
We even got obliging oblates!
Not many nuns though.
nooooo
The following
morning I was happily back in church (christian), feeling much closer to
that "dysfunctional" assortment, as we fondly refer to ourselves, than
the strangers I'd just faced the wall with and felt so distant from.
Sometime
over winter I relaxed a notch about the worshiping business the Vineyard
is based on. Realized my resistance to worshiping name rather than
message, might be folly. What about the story of maharishi's diary
containing nothing but the name of god, pages of nothing but ram, ram,
ram???!!! What difference??
In the flood
of teachers through Boise, I was recently delighted to hear mid east linguist,
peace maker and Sufi master Neil Douglas-Klotz. Although one sometime "buddhist"
said she was unimpressed (the same who never heard of Silent Spring),
I was bowled over by the high ground Douglas-Klotz held with those who
baited him to bash others, like fundamentalists. He didn't go there.
I leaned closer, stunned at hearing the Truth that the way to peace is
common ground (not criticism). My soul cheered wildly! Loved
how he described ancestors before us, and future behind!
"My" church
has been on quite a roll all winter. About February I happened to
discover one of the winter gals in yoga attends "my" church. I was
complaining that my church was wonderful, although drives me nuts, refusing
to recycle. "Wait 'til next week", she said. Lo, the very next
Sunday, the Vineyard began "Tending the Garden". Tri received about
the 2nd standing ovation I recall. We went home with new green bumper
stickers. I was stunned; pastor begged our forgiveness. That
means me. Shift happens. Can accepting women and gays be far
behind?
A few weeks
later, I faced another wall. The teacher sat next to me, although
she faced inward, to the courtyard. Maybe I should become a teacher
so I can face the group! Ha. (Easier to visit prison where
we now circle towards each other.) Her dharma talk encouraged us
to keep sitting. Perfect. Per instructions, I sat very straight,
inspired by her upright posture, focusing on breathing. Took the
opportunity to explore just where in the world my right shoulder goes.
Observed that its normal position restricts breathing on my right side.
Very satisfying sitting and walking time. Love that slow walking,
although it's never long enough for this body (except in prison).
During lunch break, chatted with my neighbor I'd encouraged to attend,
who was leaving for the day. When the sun went behind clouds, I lunched
American style, in the car. Evidently the group I've hung around
with for at least 5 years lunched together; I've given up being included.
Who are these serious dinners!
Pre ceremony potluck
April 8th
|
Leaping Lamas!
Tibetan calligraphy practice
with Geshe Jamyang Tsultrim, Apr 17
|
The Pope
had died that week. At the end of the day of zen sitting, felt drawn
to dash off to mass at St Mary's. Slipped into the back row of the
crowded church; new acquaintances from world community of christian meditation
(WCCM) joined me. Lovely mass--children quiet enough to hear the
excellent homily. The only mention of the Pope was when prayers were
offered.
The next
morning I was grateful to be back at 9am church. Rushed back to the
dojo for llam Jukai ceremony for "Floating Cloud" aspirant. Jukai?
(Don't ask.) With the guidance of the visiting saint-of-a-zen priest
Layla, the former catholic/buddhist student notorious for not showing up
for plans he sets up, took precept vows. It was a perfect Idaho happening
witnessed by practitioners from several sanghas. Layla was impeccably
calm, whispering instructions and motioning to rookie bell ringers/helpers.
Highlights included: incense billowing out of control and rushed outside;
at one point a cacophony of barking dogs (the true god worshipped by the
majority of sangha folks) burst outside the door; and finally, sitting
behind the initiate, I noticed with delight his toes were crossed!
All was in order.
A super
special gift this past fall-winter-spring has been Carol and Ray's (St
Mark's parish) inspiration to bring Cora Jackson here from Seattle to rehearse
and present her gospel Concert of the Cross in Boise. (Good thing--because
the Poston/Johnson Gospel Workshop of America team didn't come to Boise
this year). Once I experienced Cora in October, canceled conflicting
plans on rehearsal weekends. I know gold when I feel it. Thank
you, God. Remarkably, the Vineyard provided rehearsal and concert
space. Final rehearsals were grueling (though a piece of cake compared
to Dr Goodheart's kid's Christmas concert--never again!) Biggest
regret--not able to simultaneously watch the performance, which included
mimes and a signer who captured my heart, and sing in the choir!
What a concert! Boise area singers were assisted by about 30 Seattle
singers who came over for the final performances. How wonderful to
sing praise at the top of one's lungs! (And manage not fall off the
back row!) [Have you publicly taken Jesus as your savior, I'm asked!]
Bless Cora
for letting those who show up sing her music. Boise's black community
didn't participate. Cora directs those God sends, who appreciate
her awesome gifts of harmonies and passionate spirit. She'll be rewarded
in heaven for trying to make white folk sing from their toes. Give
me the voices of black singers to listen to any day. I was grateful
Cora didn't point this untrained voice to the door.
Concert of the Cross director
Cora Jackson (by Marcia)
|
Heart of the Concert of
the Cross--Seattle cast (by Marcia)
|
Sandra, 20 units of blood
later, after the benefit concert for her
March 22nd, with Boise Vineyard
singers Ruth and Pam
|
Didn't have to "Wish I was
there"--Benefit Concert at St Paul's
(I was there, in purple,
mouth open)
|
Just as
I needed a Concert of the Cross recovery group, God extended our gospel
season. The Concert of the Cross was not to be the end! Ray
and Carol's vision of Unity in Community, continued to keep the choir together
through the Boise hospitalization of Sandra, one of the Seattle participants.
For a month we prayed, visited St Al's individually and sang as a group
through her blood transfusions and treatments. Six weeks later Cora
and a several Seattle S.T.A.N.D. members returned and led us in a benefit
concert for Sandra, at St Paul's Baptist Church. Cherie Buckner blessed
us with "His Eye is on the Sparrow". Two St Paul's pastors attended
but the majority of their congregation still held back. If only they
realized how we need and miss them! Such things God understands,
not me. While folks rushed to meet families after the concert, I
stood outside with Sandra's Seattle son and watched the full moon rise
above the foothills behind downtown Boise, shining through light clouds.
Later, a mighty warm wind blew across the valley for hours--scattering
our joy?
I still
wake up humming "Stand me up, turn me around, sit me down on solid ground,
my Jesus!" One of my toughest winter lessons is breathing through
my attachment/disappointment that none of my buddies who are friends of
gospel music, came to any of these concerts, which were the light my winter.
Call it ego, what you will, it was a harsh reality check.
Back to the Vineyard.
As if greening wasn't enough, Tri continues to rock and roll. The
cross remained on stage following Easter (not left over, like some of us
thought). So much for the rebellious Jesus movement! The Blessing
of Belonging headlined the Easter Sunday bulletin while I was off in Illinois.
The next Sunday Tri said he felt it was time Boise Vineyard offered membership
and announced a membership meeting the following Sunday evening!
I yoyo-ed daily, finally picking up Bill Jackson's Radical Middle.
Reading nightly I realized what a perfect fit the Vineyard is. In
comparison to it's wild founders of its short history, my multi-faith path
is mere peanuts. Chuckling as I recalled the Moonie's mass marriage,
I signed the 1999 (to the best of my knowledge the year I began attending)
membership page. A church that makes me laugh that hard, where it's
safe to cry, that is willing to change, and beg forgiveness, is something
I can't resist.
No
matter that some have taken upon themselves to pray for my unsaved soul.
That's fine. The unpleasantness of being heavily evangelized by Prison
Fellowship and receiving thumbs down by church prison and jail ministry
coordinators, faded quickly with a hysterical phone call from a bipolar
friend. Thank you, God, for the reminder that I'm just one in a sea
of struggling folks, unskillfully "practicing the presence", judged by
some, judging others. After setting down the phone, I breathed gratefully,
lighter, and set to praying (as if every thought weren't a prayer!).
Garden variety might not be good enough for evangelists, maybe even not
for Jesus, but I think that's between God and I. Don't wanna be in
heaven with those who judge on God's behalf.
Confess
I've done a bit of dredging the past months for possible conversion moments.
Obviously haven't been struck by lightning. Maybe I was saved and
forgot? There was the big moment of knowing while in the Mexico City
cathedral. This didn't resurface until I met in Gloria Benish, about
1996, a teacher so led by and tender towards Jesus she's uncomfortable
in churches. I was deeply touched by her love of Jesus. Recently,
when I used my ordination card at jail (another story), I recalled that
experience. Remember stepping over that line I never thought I'd
cross, the sense of commitment I felt to get serious about ministering
and healing, how I accepted the love of Jesus Gloria shared. No matter
what the world thinks, Gloria said my Christ light is strong. I know
she knows.
Father Laurence
(from wccm.org)
|
A huge gift this year has
been arrival of Benedictine oblate Paula, a practitioner of World Community
of Christian Meditation (WCCM). We met by divine accident.
As a seeker after inner peace--buddhist, christian, yoga--I was thrilled.
In January, right here in river city, a small group began sitting twice
a month at St Mary's parish. With it's simple guidelines for meditation
and purpose of world peace, WCCM seems the perfect answer to a prayer.
A month later, the Boise Catholic
diocese and Idaho Episcopal diocese brought London based WCCM head,
Father Laurence Freeman to Boise. Paula included us new "meditators"
in his evening with clergy. Heaven on earth to hear Father Laurence's
simple words, simple explanations that I've begun reading in founder/mentor
John Main's books. Later we learned he asked Paula to be coordinator
for U.S.A!
|
Recently,
weeding in the church garden with the usual small Saturday a.m. crew--they
weed, I talk--I laughed heartily when one of the women declared that (my)
single, pet/child free life was "All about Me". (As if multiply and
subdue wasn't an outrageous manifestation of "do it My Way"! I rolled
my eyes!!) Without being under authority to love one another, we
couldn't survive. We've got to love ourselves and each other, before
we can offer love to others, Tri reminded us, when he put the "You'll be
Loved" back on the church bumper sticker last fall. So we practice.
He loves us, "his" church so much, I/we can't stay away. Tri's Revolutionary
Leadership just came out! Who better!
There's
a teaching story Alan Cohen tells about a Buddhist monk agreeing to accept
Jesus. When pressed to give up Buddha, he refused, saying I've got
two saviors, you have only one! Could it be? I need 'em all.
How could I have survived so long without the grace of many!
Garden expansion, April
2005. Vineyard back hoes David and Matt
God so loves the World
Winter 2004-5 - Church notes
- Helmets! not Hats!
I'm endlessly
fascinated, entertained and fed in the religious arena. Yesterday,
Saturday morning meditation and brunch reconvened after being on break
much of this year. After sitting, a major discussion subject was
the film "Napoleon Dynamite". The host shook his head, confessing
how painful the movie had been for him. I agreed, laughing at his
honesty. I thought the film cast was on drugs, but somehow made it
to the end.
This morning
I met Paula for early mass across town; she was to be a reader. We
both wore green wide wale corduroy. Though I was enjoying the priest's
homily that Christmas wasn't really over Dec. 27th (after all it'd begun
in early October), I was curious to look around at the church and congregation.
An oriental man with arms crossed, glared straight ahead and dozed; the
woman with him appeared somewhat interested in the service; the young man
with them--perhaps the only English speaker?--looked as though he was listening.
Suddenly
behind them I saw-- Napoleon Dynamite! Honest. It was too good
to be true! How I wished yesterday's group could see this!
There was a gangly, long faced teen with a dramatic pile of hair, mouth
open, staring unmoving. Just like Napoleon D! I looked at mom
and nodded--mother and son for sure. Drifted back to the priest.
People
don't know what they miss not going to church. They think they do,
but I say, they have no idea!
The talk
was good--from Christmas, to the history of winter baptism--see why Paula
chose the parish. Yearned to give my copy of Christian Yoga
to
the priest, urge him to practice good posture. He's too young to
stoop like an ancient man! I was keen to talk about the service and
her church, but Paula had business to discuss with the priest. I
left them laughing and went on to the Vineyard for late service.
Sure dislike
"jumping up and down" during mainstream services. Adapted quickly
to the simplicity of our nondenominational service--stand to sing awhile,
sit and listen awhile, end standing; and of course, music I'm able to sing
along with. After watching catholic communion, I hoped perhaps it
was communion Sunday at the Vineyard.
I was in
luck. Sang along to easy songs Kathleen Norris calls ditties (as
opposed to traditional, heavy hymns she knows and loves. I'd probably
like 'em too, if I knew 'em). We served ourselves the "elements",
vineyard style, from cafe tables; returned to seats, to stand or sit, our
choice. Good enough. What I'll remember from the sermon
was Tri saying independence and codependence are both a result of lack
of trust. Another timely obvious truth hit home. Amen.
Feel a little
guilty enjoying this so very gray, snowless winter so much! It's
the perfect excuse to hole up--read, write and reflect. Fits me to
a "t". Time to ponder favorite subjects: like the meaning of life.
This winter the Hemphills have been discovered by a military historian
of dad's flight group. I've been reading flight logs and diaries
of WWII pilots who knew a man I didn't. I've been deeply moved by
the past, especially in light of the war in Iraq.
Since reading
Rolheiser's Holy Longing, haven't been able to get the phrase holy
wronging
out of mind. Time to start a prison page of volunteer adventures,
subtitle it Holy Wronging and see what evolves. Never know
where words will take me and end up! Everyone knows "the church"
done wrong. Maybe I can tie the phrase in with Friday night live
at medium security.
Recently
read a quote from Annie Dillard's Teaching a Stone to Talk suggesting
that what we need in church is not ladies' straw hats and velvet hats,
but crash helmets and life preservers! Couldn't agree more: a serious
seeker would do well to wear a safety helmet, psychic anyhow!! Did
Dillard mention seat belts? They'd be good too. Religion's
not for the faint of heart! (And I didn't even see The Passion!
Life will go on without it.)
"Buckle up, granny" --
from Ursula le Guin's "Space Crone"
