"Start on the inside and work your way out"

lying on the floor
four stories high
in the corridor
between the asphalt and the sky
I am caught like bottled water
the light daughter
I wonder what you look like
under your t-shirt
I wonder what you sound like
when you're not wearing words
I wonder what we have
when we're not pretending
it's never-ending, haven't you heard?
I don't need to tell you
what this is about
you just start on the inside
and work your way out
we are all polylingual
but some of us pretend
there's virtue in relying
on not trying to understand
we're all citizens of the womb
before we subdivide
into sexes and shades
this side
that side
and I don't need to tell you
what this is about
you just start on the inside
and work your way out
undressing for the fan
like it was a man
wondering about all the things
that I'll never understand
there are some things that you can't know
unless you've been there
but oh how far we could go
if we started to share
I don't need to tell you
what it is about
you just start on the inside
you just start on the insïde
and work your way out


I love this song, "i wonder what you sound like when you're not wearing words","we are all polylingual, but some of us pretend"

"The only music is time, the only dance is love",Stanley Kunitz

"I think of this as a love poem. It began in a furious storm on Cape Cod and to me it marked the beginning of the end of summer. It was late August when this storm occurred. And it's a disturbing time for me. I remembered a poem that I had written 40 years before and the poem started, hinging on that line that came to me. The poem is called Touch Me.",words of Stanley Kunitz

TOUCH ME

Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that's late,
it is my song that's flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it's done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am.
Stanley Kunitz who said the only music is time, the only dance is love.

I am re posting this poem because I have been thinking about it all the time now, how absolutely stunningly eloquent these words are and how they ring so true to who we are as human beings. I am especially drawn to the words,"touch me,remind me of who I am". I was sitting in meditation in my lotus seat this morning after a nice yoga practice. I was looking forward to being in my seat, my space , the lotus position grounding me to earth. I faintly felt my breath brush upon my upper lip, my hands resting in my lap.It was the vaguest of sensations, my own hands touching each other, my own breath gently cloaking the outline of my body. I was reminded of Stanley Kunitz's words, that through the proprioceptive nature of touch we get a physical sensation, a map of ourselves.It is the same sensation when a parent cradles their baby. The infant feels more than comfort, but through being held ,the pressure of the physical contact with another gives the child a sense of the contour of her/him self. The touch of another becomes a container to be contained within one self and to begin to experience the sense of self. I imagine that is why we all crave touch," it reminds us of who are", that we need each other almost on a cellular level because without the experience of being with another or being touched by another through words, poetry,music,touch, we can not really know ourselves that well.We need each other to know ourselves.

Why I admire the poet Stanley Kunitz

Today would have been Stalney Kunitz's birthday. This little clip from you tube is in fond memory and admiration for his passion, dedication and conviction to have become the masterful ,lyrical poet that he was. He lives on though his words and the gift of his passionate will be passed in the words of his poems. I would add that ,"the world is charged with the gradeur" of poems and the poetic nature that resides in our daily toils and ways of being."nature is never spent,There lies the dearest, freshest,deep down things"- is that not a description of "ourselves..."


God's Grandeur

BY GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Touch Me,by Stanley Kunitz

t's the birthday of the man who became poet laureate the year he turned 95: Stanley Kunitz, born in Worcester, Massachusetts (1905).

One of my favorite poems by a favorite poet, in his memory, on his birthday;"Touch Me" by Stanley Kunitz


Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that's late,
it is my song that's flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it's done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am

from "my favorite poem project"

This is from "my favorite poem project", i was so touched by this young man's reading, "Awe spreads with the summer's twilight"

For the love of summer lanyard

The Lanyard - Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.


A few days ago , I was reminiscing about my love for lanyards in the summer, the dreamy ,balmy days of sitting by a river with the crickets chirping, with my own sweaty fingers of childhood sticking to the rubbery lemon yellow, sky blue, grass green, grape purple strands of lanyard. I remember the days when my now grown up daughter would come home from camp with keychains of box stich which I still use and always cherish. Billy Collins , the poet is right, a mother is easily repaidfor her breast milk,her swimming lessons, her medicinal miracles, her unconditional love with the gift of lanyard made by her child's beating heart, strong fingers, bones and eyes.

Mirror, mirror on my car, who is the fairest near and far......

A couple of weeks ago before I embarked on my "zen journey",an only mildly unusual event, that is in retrospect occurred.I was driving my usual route on a quiet early Saturday morning,a van was parked , just jutting out enough grazing my passenger window. I was bopping a little to some Afro cubano music in my car-and out of no where my passenger mirror popped out, took flight to the firmament.At the time,crazy as it seems, I laughed, was amused, thought of the event as cosmic almost.During that week I had heard a very similar story from a new friend.Here is where the mind plays devious tricks.In retelling the mirror story to a new friend with a similar recent experience, my mind went into this zone of shared connectedness, relatedness.It was the experience of sharing a little bit of a startle and surprise in a reciprocal , mutual ,warm connection that made me laugh and distracted me from the actual fright that I nearly collided with a parked car and am hear to tell the story.
As I write this now, I sit waiting for my mirror to be fixed.I am not in the same mind-emotion sphere of mutual connectedness ,possible elation that sometimes obscures the pain of the reality,the cost of an experience.I am now sitting here,no longer amused,no longer in a shared experience with a friend.All of that is now a vague memory,I am not sure what amused me anymore without the context of reciprocally shared emotion .Now in reality,I am angry waiting to fix a broken car mirror.I am annoyed that I am paying money for this stupid mirror.I tell this story as a metaphor as to recall how emotion shared between human beings obscures reality a lot.Our connections to each other can protect us from fear, difficult feelings like sadness,regret,danger guilt.Sometimes our connections to each other bring us real joy that is obscured by nothing because the joy is real.Those moments seem rare to me that happiness is real and not an illusion.I cherish such moments because of their purity and integrity. Those memories never fade and take me by surprise when it does happen....


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The ordinary ,daily, ......love

This again from the Writer's Almanac today.The poet is brave. She speaks honestly to the fickle, ordinary,, self serving,not always so pretty.but we crave for always, nature of love and loving....
Forms of Love

by Kim Addonizio

I love you but I'm married.
I love you but I wish you had more hair.
I love you more.
I love you more like a friend.
I love your friends more than you.
I love how when we go into a mall and classical muzak is playing,
you can always name the composer.
I love you, but one or both of us is/are fictional.
I love you but "I" am an unstable signifier.
I love you saying, "I understand the semiotics of that" when I said, "I
had a little personal business to take care of."
I love you as long as you love me back.
I love you in spite of the restraining order.
I love you from the coma you put me in.
I love you more than I've ever loved anyone, except for this one
guy.
I love you when you're not getting drunk and stupid.
I love how you get me.
I love your pain, it's so competitive.
I love how emotionally unavailable you are.
I love you like I'm a strange backyard and you're running from the
cops, looking for a place to stash your gun.
I love your hair.
I love you but I'm just not that into you.
I love you secretly.
I love how you make me feel like I'm a monastery in the desert.
I love how you defined grace as the little turn the blood in the
syringe takes when you're shooting heroin, after you pull back
the plunger slightly to make sure you hit the vein.
I love your mother, she's the opposite of mine.
I love you and feel a powerful spiritual connection to you, even
though we've never met.
I love your tacos! I love your stick deodorant!
I love it when you tie me up with ropes using the knots you
learned in Boy Scouts, and when you do the stoned Dennis
Hopper rap from Apocalypse Now!
I love your extravagant double takes!
I love your mother, even though I'm nearly her age!
I love everything about you except your hair.
If it weren't for that I know I could really, really love you.

"Forms of Love" by Kim Addonizio, from Lucifer at the Starlite. © W.W. Norton & Company, 2009. Reprinted with permission.

The Opulence of Summer

Since July is normally the month when the new antlers of buck deer push out of their foreheads in coatings of velvety fur, the full moon of this moon is called the full Buck Moon.

Sometimes this moon was also often called the Full Thunder Moon, because thunderstorms are most frequent during this time. Another name for this month’s Moon was the Full Hay Moon.

Summer, bursting out in opulence,ripeness,heavy thunderstorms, new antlers budding forth on bucks, Vivadi understood well the grandeur of summer in its fullest sense

Optimism by Jane Hirshfield

More and more I have come to admire resilience.
Not the simple resistance of a pillow, whose foam
returns over and over to the same shape, but the sinuous
tenacity of a tree: finding the light newly blocked on one side,
it turns in another. A blind intelligence, true.
But out of such persistence arose turtles, rivers,
mitochondria, figs--all this resinous, unretractable earth.

This poem was posted today in the Upaya newletter , I was reminded of this old tree stump , I came across this summer in the Pecos Wilderness. Tonight, is a full moon,today felt very arduous and sinuous,perhaps troubling days on eves of a powerful full moon make us more resilient,tortuous and perhaps a fluid resinous optimism will eventually spill out leading a more intelligent way of being for me....

_

Fusion of east and west

Summer makes me think of "ragas", harmonic sitar music. Yesterday , I was at a Chopin fest of sort, Chopin was greatly influenced by the folk music of his homeland Poland. I often become nostalgic for the stories of my grandmother who was born in Bukovina, Romania near the Carpathian Mountains. I wondered if there was any fusion of East and West , Romanian folk music tradition and Classical Sitar music and I found this amazing group of Romanian Yogis, so here they are;

this a lik to their web site, http://celestialsitar.com/turya.htm,what an amazing journey of linking east and west again through music, Namaste to you Turya

What can happen when sitting at the table...

This again from

the Writer's Almanac today;

Perhaps the World Ends Here by Joy Harjo The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live. The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table so it has been since creation, and it will go on. We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it. It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women. At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers. Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table. This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun. Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory. We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here. At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks. Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite. "Perhaps the World Ends Here" by Joy Harjo, from Reinventing the Enemy's Language. © W.W. Norton and Co., 1998. Reprinted with permission Being human does begin at the kitchen table it is where, the what and how we talk and listen and be with each other everyday happens. It is true that all of life can and does happen at the tables we sit at everyday with the people who we see every day of our lives

Chopin...grasping,yet ,letting go

I had the good fortune today at being at a day of hearing about Chopin's life,about his frailty,his strength, his resilience and his poetry of the soul. Winston Choi played this piece this Chopin piece amongst others for us, but this one was by far for me the most illuminating of Chopin's deep embedded ability to express the churning of one's heart, the attempts of reaching for the unknown and trying again with new fervor for that which we can only grasp at . We listened to a poetic narrative that with each nuanced repetition moved deeper ad deeper into the exploration of feelings that no words could ever describe. I was reminded of the important lessons in life that one learns, that repetition does not mean necessarily that something is done or felt in the same way. Revisiting can mean a new creative opportunity to move along the same path, to delve more deeply, with greater mystery and curiosity,passion , wonder and amazement. Repetition can lead to new places, new discoveries,if we pause to take note of the colors, textures, tones,contrasts that emerge anew with fresh vision.One of the descriptions that was spoken of today was how parts of this piece may evoke in us a sense of longing,that you want something so so much, but in the process of such desire , you must also let go. I think the creative process emerges in that transition of grasping ,yet also letting go. I have fallen in love , yet again with Chopin's total dedication to express that which moves, breathes and dances in the recesses of our souls...

Rolling Hills of New Mexico

I recently had the good fortune to visit the Holy Ghost Trail in the Pecos Wilderness of New Mexico with the best naturalist, bright, responsible, considerate guide, Karen through her outfit called, Outspire. The Pecos Wilderness is majestic with ponderosa pines that smell like vanilla, wild strawberries, field upon field of widlflowers and millions of butterflies flittering about...
While hiking in the Pecos Wilderness, I thought of this song by Kate Wolf. She sings of the rolling hills of California. I was singing of the rolling hills of New Mexico

Mindfulness, attachments ..... of my heart

"Attachment theory" as formulated by British psychoanalyst John Bowlby suggests that we as humans and possibly most primates are hard wired from infancy to seek out the proximity of an attachment figure in times of stress.Infants,then become "attached" to those primary caregivers who are sensitive,responsive,interactive and consistent through their social and emotional responsiveness to them.As children,they can then venture forth in the world to explore carrying with them the memories and feelings of that secure base from where they originated.
I recently returned from a retreat where we examined neurobiological theories of human connectedness/attachment to others and how our self awareness and awareness of other's mind states ie;empathy relates to ancient practices of awareness and mindfulness.Incorporated into the retreat were daily exercises in guided meditation using techniques of mindfulness that were embedded in a more scientific tradition and techniques embedded in traditional wisdom of the ages.As I sat in meditation guided by Roshi Joan Halifax in the Buddhist tradition and in meditation guided by Dr. Dan Siegel from a more science based tradition ,I had an intense similar emotional response to both,but more heartfelt through the ancient traditions of wisdom.
So here is what I felt in the meditation guided by Roshi,I have never before had such a viscersal ,physical sensation of" mercy".I had a clear visual and tactile sensation as I saw and touched the external strong pulsating fibers of my own heart' s chambers.I could feel my fingers gently cupping,massaging each rhythmic beat as clear raindrops of tears slid through the cracks between my fingers dropping slowly towards the earth.I felt this warm radiant fullness , of " mercy" , ironically for myself and all the trials and tribulations, the journeys of my life.I saw some regrets ,some joys, some triumphant moments ,some bitter mistakes,but for what I imagine is the very first time for me, I felt compassion for me ,that my intention usually is to do my best, even though the outcome may not always seem that way.I sat with that feeling for a long time as my eyes welled with tears and my heart pumped out tears as well. I wondered if I ever really was truly empathic to others as I had never really looked straight into my own eyes for my own forgiveness and compassion for and with myself.I have added a daily meditation to my yoga practice.I now look forward to sitting in a quiet lotus seat where I can see my heart more clearly. I wonder what places this now will begin to lead me to.I wonder if my own secure attachments,the unconscious knowing that I have been loved will allow me greater self love and compassion for others in a real heart felt sense....


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Sweet Summer.......Romance

Hey gentle folk,readers of my blog.It is the middle of a warm good summer.The gentle breezes of a summer make think of.....the romance of a mid summer's day. I was listening to the radio on the way to work with a soft breeze grazing past my face and heard this fine tune of Nanci Griffith's.It is about" romance in the five and dime".Music can and does carry one away.I began thinking about the five and dime of my childhood summers .After a hot day at the beach swimming in a cool wavy lake, my grandmother Sally would take me to Woolworth's, the "nickel and dime store" as Sally said, to pIck out lanyard.I remember the soft slippery squeaky feeling of the summer colors of lanyard strands in my little sweaty hands.I remember picking out sky blue and lemon yellow and practicing the box stitch.Woolworth's had a pop corny , rubbery smell to it.Sally would buy me ice cold chocolate milk to cool off.It was the kind of chocolate syrup that clung to the bottom and sides of a frothy glass.Those were rich warm happy days of summer.My romance at the time was that of a child for her grandmother that provided her with the happiest of a summer day.It is interesting to see where the mind travels when listening to a tune .Summer does lead to feelings of greater ease and receptivity,so so welcomed....


(Nanci Griffith)
Rita was sixteen years... hazel eyes and chestnut hair
She made the Woolworth counter shine
Eddie was a sweet romancer, and a darn good dancer
They'd waltz the aisles of the five and dime

[Chorus:]
They'd sing, "Dance a little closer to me... dance a little closer now
Dance a little closer tonight
Dance a little closer to me... it's closing time
And love's on sale tonight at this five and dime

Eddie played the steel guitar and his mama cried 'cuz he played in the bars
And kept young Rita out late at night
So, they married up in Abilene... lost a child in Tennessee
Still, that love survived

[Chorus]

One of the boys in Eddie's band... took a shine to Rita's hands
So, Eddie ran off with the bass man's wife
Oh' but he was back by June... singin' a different tune
And sportin' Miss Rita back by his side

[Chorus]

Eddie traveled with the barroom bands... till arthritis took his hands
Now he sells insurance on the side
Rita's got a house to keep... dime store novels and a love so sweet
They dance to the radio late at night

[Chorus]

[Repeat 1st verse]

They'd waltz the aisles of the five and dime
They'd waltz the aisles of the five and dim

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Forgiveness amongst Fathers and Daughters

This post is one that has evolved over a life time for me. What I have to say has been hard earned and has required constant internal re-examination and refinement. This aura of forgiveness comes at the trailing edge of a week of exercises in mindfulness in the care of compassionate teachers and friends at Upaya Zen Center in Santa Fe. I have always been fascinated by the relationship that evolves between father and daughter over a life time. I have special fondness for men that I encounter that take the time to hang around, be present, attend to and love their daughters only in a way one's father can. My father will celebrate his birthday next month. I think of my father daily and of lately have been thinking or rather hearing in my head the words that could make all the difference in a daughter's life. I am certain ,that if my father could say such words to me, he would. Today, I was listening to one of my favorite programs on npr called "Resound"from the "third coast audio festival". This one is a reflection of a father's inner most feelings as he lovingly watches his daughter emerge from infancy to a young teen. I know that my father probably had or has such feelings for this daughter, they are just buried too deep from conscious awareness to be spoken. Here is the clip that I am so glad to have heard today. It has helped me to imagine that my own father could speak such words. I felt something like.....Forgiveness.....

This is the audio clip ,"Scared" by John Biewen, please click on link to hear these heart felt word of a father to his daughter

Scared, by John Biewen from Third Coast Festival on Vimeo.

The Compassionate Stance.....paying attention to the subtle

As I continue to reflect upon the week I spent at the Upaya Zen Center ,I remember with great clarity how each and every encounter with the residents at Upaya resonated with exquisite respect and appreciation for the subtle interactions that occur in every moment between human beings.I am certain that this aura of auspicious dignity can be directly traced to the presence and teachings of Roshi Joan Halifax.This week was also influenced by the studies of Dr. Dan Siegel who is dedicating his life to the careful study of how we can embody an empathic life stance with each other in our modern society.Dan spoke of many touching stories, while presenting at Upaya.One of his stories was of a personal nature that occurred while at Upaya.I can attest to its validity as I was up on my way to a yoga practice one morning at 4:30 am.Dan was up also on his way to a river path during an empathic encounter with a meadow mouse,which in metaphor was the embodiment of his teachings to us.So this is the encounter of Dan and the meadow mouse one early summer morning at Upaya;
It was still dark out,the sun had not risen yet, I was carrying a flashlight to see my way on the short stone path to the zendo.the air was cool and moist,the birds barely began their morning chants,the susurrus of small deliberate nocturnal critters in the low dry bush was audible. Dan was on his way to let the mouse free and I was on my way to practice my daily yoga.There in the path walking quietly in contemplation was Dan .He was holding a glass cup.He said he was walking to the river path to let this mouse go.That was all he said as he walked away into the shadows of the early dawn. Later that day,Dan spoke to us of his encounter with the meadow mouse.He said,he woke up to go to the bathroom and suddenly he noticed a little mouse scurrying past his feet.When he returned to his bed he could not sleep well as he was thinking about the little mouse.In his retelling of the encounter ,it sounded like he was thinking of the mouse,but moreover , he thought of how would this little critter scurrying,scratching about effect his fellow human friends that he now lived amongst and felt a responsibility to.It seemed that Dan was engaged in an internal dialogue with himself as to what would be the most empathic, compassionate,responsible stance towards his roommates and a dignified life respecting response to this meadow mouse.Dan after all, is not a mouse catcher by trade and had limited resources and experience in catching this mouse.On Dan's return to the bathroom a second time,miraculously the mouse reappeared and squiggled under the door to make certain eye contact with Dan.The experience was described as something beyond words ,as if some like minded mental awareness , a co-created mind experience had evolved between mouse and man in that moment.This apparently aided Dan in constructing a practical , humane solution to this enigmatic interlude.It was a solution that was generated by empathy to his fellow man/woman so as not to disturb or frighten their peaceful slumber, but also protected the life and being state of the mouse.So, Dan let the mouse crawl into a bathroom drinking glass and covered the top with a tissue box and then took a walk to a nearby river path to let this mouse to safety.On his path to the river,he passed me by in his state of contemplative revelry, what he may call "mindsight".In his discussing of the meadow mouse later in the day,he still seemed troubled,whether he had done right towards the mouse and would a house mouse survive in the wild.Such were and are the contemplations of the the mind that embodies empathy towards all sentient beings.
There were countless examples from the subtle to the complex at Upaya where the nuanced details of human compassionate interaction always took precedence.These are examples of the extreme attention to detail that does occur when the mind is awake,alert,and aware.These are examples of how greater self knowledge can and does lead to awareness of the other, seeing another more clearly and to kindness;
There was this intuitive sense of being completely present when eye contact was made for however brief the moment was between random human beings,as if to say for this brief moment is the only moment in time that we may ever share with each other, that what we perceive and know of each other right now and that is all that matters now.
When a new person came to the table at a meal, there were a few seconds of silence, some space made for the presence of this new person.Sometimes others would stand or bow their head or get up to pull out a chair for the new person ,all in honor of the auspicious presence of a new human encounter.
After a ten minute period of silence during meals,there was a radiant full bright sensation of gratitude for the individuals that prepared the meals, the evolving aromatic gustatory and olfactory sensations that slowly arose were notable and palpable .When conversation eventually arose it was with greater intention and purpose from a place in the heart that was unique for the presence of this specific encounter in the present with this
unique person.
Here is the prayer that was said before meals that embodies the spirit that is taught at Upaya:
"Earth,water,fire,air,space combine to make this food.Numberless beings gave their lives and labors that we may eat.May we be nourished and nourish life".

Om......






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"Use yourself up for goodness, until nothing is left ,but ashes that blow away"....Compassion

I have just returned from a retreat at the Upaya Zen Center near SantaFe , New Mexico . The center was founded by the inspiring Buddhist teacher ,anthropologist and humanist,Roshi Joan Halifax.The retreat that I attended was on the topic of "the neurobiology of mindfulness, compassion , ie; mindsight."Dan Siegel,M.D. , who coined the term "mindsight" presented his perspective and insights on the current state of neuroscience and how it relates to the hard wiring of the brain for mindful awareness of our selves and compassion for each other.Dan and Roshi discussed how ancient wisdom practices that teach us the art of self awareness allow us to be compassionate , empathic ,and inter-related to each other.These practices ultimately connect us in the present and also eventually have meaning that reach beyond the now, over time and space,beyond this current generation and geography.In other words , how we relate to each other now has effect on future generations as well.
These are some thoughts I carry with me from the wise compassion of Roshi Joan
Halifax at Upaya.These are not verbatum quotes :


It is because of the pain in the world that we need happiness.
A personal practice requires discernment.We can not hand out undiscerned prescriptions for self practices of wisdom such as meditation.
We need to differentiate between feeling another's suffering and an empathic stance to suffering.
A mindfulness practice teaches us that;
I want the best for as many people as possible.
I will do my best always for as many people as possible.
I will have no neutrality regarding the above two statements,but at the same time will not be attached to the outcome of my desires and actions.
How can I be of benefit to others?
We must take the path of the worm ,not the path of the jaguar.
You need a daily practice to be engaged.
You have to be in the trenches to do your work and be of service to the world.
Use yourself up for goodness,until nothing is left but ashes that blow away.
The illusion that we are separate from each other is an illusion.
Practices of mindfulness prevent us from getting caught up in delusions of identity.

here is a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye that embodies Roshi's words.
It is called "Kindness"
Naomi Shihab Nye from Neil Astley on Vimeo.
Kindness

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

The Mending of a Chasm

Dearest Readers, Today a good day, a generous day. My stories are not always bleak. There are days such as today that I am reassured that when we take the time, make the effort to connect with another human being, we indeed can and do lessen suffering. The other day , I spoke of a very forlorn mother who watched on in helplessness as her son was drifting off into an abyss of pain.I told of how I felt I was a river guide and the rapids were chewing us up, how I offered to row with all my might against the savage current and lend some courage and give some reprieve.

We somehow had configured a new strategy together against the raging waves of life as eventually the ripping of the current even tired of itself.Today, I visited with this mom and her son. There was greater ease, composure, hope, and a glimmer of joy, I could not have had a better day....

I am just another person learning life lessons on my yoga mat....

I guess the real question for me lies in ,will I carry these lessons learned on the mat into my life,will I integrate what I have struggled with and sometimes resolved into the fabric of my daily life in some seamless ,effortless fashion. An essential lesson that keeps resurfacing for me is attending to the quality of my breath, listening for its ebbs and flows,its source,its rhythm .Following quietly the trailing edge of my breath ,the truth of where and who I am unfolds with greater clarity.Noticing the brief pause between each inhalation and exhalation is an opportunity to hover in an undefined space and explore that about myself that I may not know.
So here are my recent ponderings that I carry with me off the mat into this space that I live my life;
Sometimes a pose is oh so challenging that I lose the rhythm of my breath,I push too hard,to the point of tears,sometimes to nausea and in a brief pause between breath a hint of resolve appears and I begin to ask ,where are you going exactly and for what purpose and at what cost.
Sometimes I find myself surrendering, backing off,treading gingerly, in that surrender there is a kind of freedom, an acceptance,a discovery that growth can occur without struggle and without always challenging myself beyond my comfort zone.
A recurrent theme seems to be emerging, that is learning to accept the way things are,that I really have no power to disrupt and let it all be just as it is and when i am in such a stance of inaction to reask myself if this is an excuse for passivity, as creativity ,passion,knowledge often emerges amidst struggle and challenge.There are times that one's actions can save a life,avert a disaster,bring joy into another' s world and I guess the same can probably be said of inaction and surrender as well.
So , on the mat I am engaging in this ongoing dance , dialogue with my physical,energetic,spiritual , mental self and at the same time there is often just the quiet of my breath,the rhythms of my body in movement,my thoughts in suspension.
I really do not know if any of this has real meaning, yet in the moment it often feels so important when it is not really.
I guess the lesson I am learning is not take anything for granted on or off the mat,but at the same time to understand that what may seem so important in any passing moment will eventually pass.So yoga continues to shed light for me on at least listening to my breath,possibility listening to your breath when you are in my presence and perhaps we can understand the unique experience of seeing each other more clearly....




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The Chasm

What force has formed this masterpiece of awe?
What hands have wrought these wonders in the waste?
O river, gleaming in the narrow rift
Of gloom that cleaves the valley's nether deep,--
Fierce Colorado, prisoned by thy toil,
And blindly toiling still to reach the sea,--
Thy waters, gathered from the snows and springs
Amid the Utah hills, have carved this road
Of glory to the Californian Gulf.
But now, O sunken stream, thy splendour lost,
'Twixt iron walls thou rollest turbid waves,
Too far away to make their fury heard!

At sight of thee, thou sullen labouring slave
Of gravitation,--yellow torrent poured
From distant mountains by no will of thine,
Through thrice a hundred centuries of slow
Fallings and liftings of the crust of Earth,--
At sight of thee my spirit sinks and fails.
Art thou alone the Maker? Is the blind
Unconscious power that drew thee dumbly down
To cut this gash across the layered globe,
The sole creative cause of all I see?
Are force and matter all? The rest a dream?

Then is thy gorge a canyon of despair,
A prison for the soul of man, a grave
Of all his dearest daring hopes! The world
Wherein we live and move is meaningless,
No spirit here to answer to our own!
The stars without a guide: The chance-born Earth
Adrift in space, no Captain on the ship:
Nothing in all the universe to prove
Eternal wisdom and eternal love!
And man, the latest accident of Time,--
Who thinks he loves, and longs to understand,
Who vainly suffers, and in vain is brave,
Who dupes his heart with immortality,--
Man is a living lie,--a bitter jest
Upon himself,--a conscious grain of sand
Lost in a desert of unconsciousness,
Thirsting for God and mocked by his own thirst.
From "Grand Canyon" by Henry Van Dyke,1913

I have always wanted to take a river rafting trip along the Grand Canyon.in fact,every summer,I say I will ,but seem to put it off.This week again ,I was reminded of this dream .I was sitting in my office listening to a mother of a young boy patient of mine.The boy ,for lack of a better explanation had a serious disturbance,a turbulent chiasmic rupture in his mind, his soul,his essence.Despite the many attempts at retrieving,reviving,reconstituting the young boy with the wizardry of modern medicine,the boy seemed to have gotten sucked into a bottomless vortex of internal strife.He was physically present but lost in a wordless mire of pain.His mother watched passively as did I not being able to do much ,barely to contain his suffering.We both watched in fear as he took this ill fated journey.There have been times that all that I could offer was the wordless wisdom , the knowledge , the compassion that I had navigated these rocky,craggy,wild, convulsing rapids once myself as I passively watched someone most dear to my heart get thrown asunder on the same cold hearted ferocious river of life.All that I could offer with all my fancy training and degrees was myself,that I could be a strong ,wise river guide for this mother so she could give courage to her son, that I know how to row so very well against the beating of the currents that try to break us, that life continuously tests our endurance and each time we cross these currents we learn to do it better, with more grace, more discernment.I could not guarantee this mother or this child a safe haven as I have long stopped believing in that.but,what I can offer is some brief reprieve and do some rowing against the current for her and if she watches closely,she will learn and become adept like me and learning to navigate the wild not at all predictable currents of the river of our life....


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The joyful side of Franz Kafka

It's the birthday of the writer Franz Kafka, (books by this author) born in Prague (1883). A writer associated with doom and gloom, the word "Kafkaesque" has come to mean absurd, dreamlike, and even sinister. In a letter to his fiancée, Kafka wrote: "The life that awaits you is not that of the happy couples you see strolling along before you in Westerland, no lighthearted chatter arm in arm, but a monastic life at the side of a man who is peevish, miserable, silent, discontented, and sickly." He had sexual anxiety, and felt inferior to his father. And it is easy to summarize his life as tragic: He only published a few short stories during his life and never finished any novels (besides his novella Metamorphosis); he had a few love affairs, but was never married; and then he died at the age of 40 from tuberculosis.

But there are some cheerful elements to Kafka's life story. For one, he was a competent and dedicated employee of an insurance agency, the Workers' Accident Insurance Institute. He started there in 1908 and worked there steadily for 14 years, compensating injured workers. He had a good salary, worked six-hour work days, from 8:00 a.m. to 2 p.m. and worked his way up over the years. He kept records, wrote letters and articles, dealt with statistics, assessed his own business and others, processed claims, and represented the organization as a lawyer. Kafka himself tended to dismiss his work when he talked or wrote about it. But he showed up every day, and he wrote up the official annual reports, and was apparently proud of them because he sent copies to his family and friends. His friend the writer Max Brod wrote a biography of Kafka, and he wrote: "I spoke to one of the head officials who once worked with Kafka. Franz Kafka, so the gentleman told me, was popular with everyone; he hadn't a single enemy."

Kafka also had a great, even obsessive, respect for health and physicality. There is much made of Kafka's time in coffee houses, but no evidence that he ever drank coffee himself, and he did not drink alcohol at all. He slept with his window open all the year round, always in fresh air, did calisthenics every evening at exactly 7:30 p.m., and he liked all sorts of exercise. He wrote in his diary in 1910: "I row, ride, swim, lie in the sun. Therefore my calves are good, my thighs not bad, my belly will pass muster, but my chest is very shabby."

And Kafka's last love affair, with a 25-year-old woman named Dora Diamant, seems to have been a happy one. They met at a Baltic resort, where she was working in the kitchen. He entertained her by performing shadow puppets on the wall, and he read aloud to her. They played together and teased each other. He wanted to marry her, but her father refused, on the grounds that Kafka was not an Orthodox Jew. They were only together for a year before he died of tuberculosis. Dora said later, "Everything was done with laughter," and, "Kafka was always cheerful. He liked to play; he was a born playmate, always ready for some fun.

This was in ,my inbox again from the Writer's Almanac today. I am posting it on my blog as I am so very touched to hear of the life of the real man ,Franz Kafka. My impression of him through his writings was one of a bleak.melancholic, reclusive man that shyed away from the vibrancy that life has to offer. To my delight, i am told, he did calisthenics, a form of yoga so to speak daily,that he was cheerful,playful,ready for fun,slept with his window open all the time,that he was well liked and even loved and knew of the joys of love, that he lived a well lived life,,,,.

WS Merwin on Knowing and Not Knowing-"like a fine thread of hair floating through the air"

The moon, by Jaime Sabines -a translation by WS Merwin

a moon leaf

The Moon

by Jaime Sabines

You can take the moon in spoonfuls
or in tablets once every two hours.
It works as a hypnotic and a sedative
and also provides relief
for those who have an overdose of philosophy.
A piece of moon in your pocket
is a better charm than a rabbit's paw:
it helps to find someone to love,
to be rich without anybody knowing
and keeps doctors and hospitals away.
You can give it as a dessert to children
when they can't get to sleep,
and a few drops of moon in the eyes of the old
help to die well.
Put a tender moon leaf
under your pillow
and you will see what you would like to see
and always carry a little bottle of moon air
for when you feel you're suffocating
and give the moon's key
to prisoners, and the disenchanted.
For those sentenced to death
and those condemned to life
there is no better tonic than the moon
in precisely measured doses.

Jaime Sabines (1926 - 1999)


BIOGRAPHY

Octavio Paz called Jaime Sabines “one of the greatest contemporary poets” of the Spanish language. Born in 1926 in Tuxtla Gutiérrez, Chiapas, Sabines made his way to Mexico City as a young man to study medicine; three years later, he would turn to literature and never look back. His work, focused on portraying the everyday lives of ordinary people, has been translated into over twelve languages and has been honored with several prestigious awards in his own country, including the Xavier Villaurrutia Award (1972) and the National Literature Award (1983). In addition to his literary pursuits, Sabines led an active political life in both his home state of Chiapas and his adopted hometown, Mexico City. He died in 1999.

I recently was introduced to this poet, someone also who studied medicine. Perhaps there is something about being so close to human suffering and yes, human miracles as well that helps us understand the need to"carry a little bottle of moon air" wherever we go and that "there is no better tonic than the moon".oh, the moon of summer , not just tonic, but mystifying elixir.....

WS Merwin,my favorite poet

from Tricycle Blog today,

Yesterday, the US Library of Congress named W.S. Merwin as the country’s Poet Laureate. Merwin, who moved to Hawaii in 1976 to study Zen with Robert Aitken, is a longtime Buddhist and a prolific writer. His appointment is timely: As a nature writer and an environmental activist, Merwin has the power to call attention to America’s wars and the devastation of the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico.

The New York Times reports:

Mr. Merwin’s appointment is potentially inspired. He is an exacting nature poet, a fierce critic of the ecological damage humans have wrought. Helen Vendler, writing last year in The New York Review of Books, called him “the prophet of a denuded planet.” With the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico becoming more dread and apocalyptic by the hour, Mr. Merwin may be a poet we’ll need. The pacifist in him may brood over the long war in Afghanistan.

The Poet Laureate is appointed by the government and is expected to work towards cultivating a national appreciation for the pursuit of reading and writing poetry. Despite his reclusiveness, Merwin is well suited to the task; he has published over 30 books over the course of his long career and is the recipient of two Pulitzer Prizes and the National Book Award.

WS merwin is my favorite poet. What resonates with me is his eloquent attempt to try to pare down, simplify his imagery, so we closely and purely attend to that which beckons our attention.His poetry reminds me of what I aspire to strive for in my yoga practice, my life, my relationships, my service to humanity, in not complicating and respecting and accepting that which is already so radiant and here right now for me to attend to, to cherish, to love...