This body, succumbing to a virus calls
for love, I'm broken, love me
The world is broken, how do I love the world?
I teach my students to sit, to practice
Everyday I teach myself,
this again
Eight year old Isabel says: "Oh this again"
Again we meet here with ourselves, and who better?
Broken, yes, but still adorable and quaint
Friday, November 19, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Book Review: The Great Failure
In The Great Failure: My Unexpected Path to Truth, Natalie Goldberg has offered yet another unvarnished view into what it means to be human. I am grateful to her, and to the many writers who are able to pull this off. It is not common writing, and therefore I surmise it must not be effortless, even as her prose is as natural as to read itself.
I am fascinated by memoir, my favorite genre. I find inspiration in the realworld experiences of people, and how they choose to tell the story. Truth being stranger than fiction, the other part of what I find captivating is the unpredictable nature of actually happens in the everyday lives of families, marriages, spiritual quests - the type of human experiences which are not normally included in 'small talk'. A myriad of ironies happen everywhere, everyday, as we pretend in our little human way that we have control over life, that it can be managed and structured by our fervent wishing and hard work.
Natalie Goldberg practices Zen Buddhism, which has been her way to make sense of life for more than 30 years. She is my age, the mid fifties. We shared the same eras, the same parent generation. Ours was an age group faced with more choices than our parents, yet we were still sorting through the remnants of old paradigms in conflict with the new. Many of our generation did not make it through. (I have 2 siblings who are mentally ill). Many became wildly rich. Many are gone altogether. We will become the elders soon, the past becomes longer and more varied for those of us still grinding away at the questions, making the most of this gift-challenge of life.
Early in her Buddhist practice, Natalie found her teacher/mentor, Katagiri Roshi. He was her strongest inspiration for 12 years, a formative time which changed Natalie's life, informed her writing and inspired her to create. In the midst of Roshi's teaching, he died of cancer, leaving his student devastated and disoriented. Natalie stayed with her practice, and carried Roshi's memory like a light, trying to survive the loss of the physical presence of a beloved person, gone too soon.
Several years after his death, Natalie learned that Roshi had had numerous extra marital affairs. The man she fervently revered was not the man he appeared to be as they sat for hours in dedicated meditation. Like the grief over death, she was faced with finding the way to still love her teacher, and be with the truth.
In tandem to this struggle, she relates the experiences of her family and it's failings, which she spent much of her life coming to terms with. What a gift this type of story is, a person willing to discuss the workings of a family, the personal journey of a spiritual practice as well as the realities of their own flawed human relationships, like a marriage that didn't work. It gives me solace, assuages that nagging sense that whatever I do is not enough, and that I am not as good as someone who has managed a more conventional life.
I found this quote recently: "Success has a thousand fathers, but failure is an orphan". I think understanding failure is complex, and uncomfortable, but Natalie Goldberg has managed to write through the wall, putting light and air to our human weaknesses, offering forgiveness, setting aside judgment. It is an example of how we can each be in our own practice, noticing more, and judging less.
I bow to Natalie Golberg for her courage to write with honesty and love.
I am fascinated by memoir, my favorite genre. I find inspiration in the realworld experiences of people, and how they choose to tell the story. Truth being stranger than fiction, the other part of what I find captivating is the unpredictable nature of actually happens in the everyday lives of families, marriages, spiritual quests - the type of human experiences which are not normally included in 'small talk'. A myriad of ironies happen everywhere, everyday, as we pretend in our little human way that we have control over life, that it can be managed and structured by our fervent wishing and hard work.
Natalie Goldberg practices Zen Buddhism, which has been her way to make sense of life for more than 30 years. She is my age, the mid fifties. We shared the same eras, the same parent generation. Ours was an age group faced with more choices than our parents, yet we were still sorting through the remnants of old paradigms in conflict with the new. Many of our generation did not make it through. (I have 2 siblings who are mentally ill). Many became wildly rich. Many are gone altogether. We will become the elders soon, the past becomes longer and more varied for those of us still grinding away at the questions, making the most of this gift-challenge of life.
Early in her Buddhist practice, Natalie found her teacher/mentor, Katagiri Roshi. He was her strongest inspiration for 12 years, a formative time which changed Natalie's life, informed her writing and inspired her to create. In the midst of Roshi's teaching, he died of cancer, leaving his student devastated and disoriented. Natalie stayed with her practice, and carried Roshi's memory like a light, trying to survive the loss of the physical presence of a beloved person, gone too soon.
Several years after his death, Natalie learned that Roshi had had numerous extra marital affairs. The man she fervently revered was not the man he appeared to be as they sat for hours in dedicated meditation. Like the grief over death, she was faced with finding the way to still love her teacher, and be with the truth.
In tandem to this struggle, she relates the experiences of her family and it's failings, which she spent much of her life coming to terms with. What a gift this type of story is, a person willing to discuss the workings of a family, the personal journey of a spiritual practice as well as the realities of their own flawed human relationships, like a marriage that didn't work. It gives me solace, assuages that nagging sense that whatever I do is not enough, and that I am not as good as someone who has managed a more conventional life.
I found this quote recently: "Success has a thousand fathers, but failure is an orphan". I think understanding failure is complex, and uncomfortable, but Natalie Goldberg has managed to write through the wall, putting light and air to our human weaknesses, offering forgiveness, setting aside judgment. It is an example of how we can each be in our own practice, noticing more, and judging less.
I bow to Natalie Golberg for her courage to write with honesty and love.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Holidays We're Stuck With
I like holidays. I like the chance to feel like I'm not obligated to the usual level of productivity. Isn't that what holidays are about? This one, Veteran's Day, is one I feel some ambiguity toward. I wish there were non-violent ways to serve one's country, then I would be a veteran too.
The On-line Dictionary defines veteran as: "A person who is long experienced or practiced in an activity or capacity." So, I am a veteran. I am a veteran of life, of young widowhood, single parenthood and Catholic School. I am a veteran of broken hearts, tight budgets, and second hand clothes. I am a veteran of middle childhood in a pack of 9, working for peace, lobbying for the land and being ignored.
I am also a veteran of privileges, like never knowing hunger, and having healthy, kind, smart children. I am a veteran of knowing love, watching sunsets, climbing mountains and eating beautiful food.
My father is the kind of Veteran this day is about. He served in the Air Force in WWII. He hasn't talked about it much until recently. We were at a party a few months ago, speaking to a young woman from Japan. My Dad was in an animated conversation with us. The woman mentioned the town she was from. Dad suddenly became intensely serious, and told her how sorry he was that his plane dropped bombs on that very town during the war. I was impressed beyond words. She was stunningly gracious. We all felt very close and exchanged contact numbers toward the end of the evening.
I think it took as much, if not more courage for my Dad to admit that fact to this young woman as it took for him to fly in planes in wartime. He doesn't like war. The best kind of veteran.
What are you a veteran of?
If we realize, all of us, that we are serving something every day, that what we do becomes our legacy, we are touching eternal life.
The On-line Dictionary defines veteran as: "A person who is long experienced or practiced in an activity or capacity." So, I am a veteran. I am a veteran of life, of young widowhood, single parenthood and Catholic School. I am a veteran of broken hearts, tight budgets, and second hand clothes. I am a veteran of middle childhood in a pack of 9, working for peace, lobbying for the land and being ignored.
I am also a veteran of privileges, like never knowing hunger, and having healthy, kind, smart children. I am a veteran of knowing love, watching sunsets, climbing mountains and eating beautiful food.
My father is the kind of Veteran this day is about. He served in the Air Force in WWII. He hasn't talked about it much until recently. We were at a party a few months ago, speaking to a young woman from Japan. My Dad was in an animated conversation with us. The woman mentioned the town she was from. Dad suddenly became intensely serious, and told her how sorry he was that his plane dropped bombs on that very town during the war. I was impressed beyond words. She was stunningly gracious. We all felt very close and exchanged contact numbers toward the end of the evening.
I think it took as much, if not more courage for my Dad to admit that fact to this young woman as it took for him to fly in planes in wartime. He doesn't like war. The best kind of veteran.
What are you a veteran of?
If we realize, all of us, that we are serving something every day, that what we do becomes our legacy, we are touching eternal life.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The Light Tonight
The Light Tonight
The light tonight was soft and kind, orange peach alpenglow
lit the bluewhite mound of Mt Adams in the East.
What is it about maple trees, all goldeny between dark green firs,
we winding in dappled sun and shadow on the road
to pick ripe reisling grapes at the vineyard?
Whose life is this? Surrounded in rows of yellow leaved vines, mud cakes to my hiking boots
hands sticky from fruit, my lover holding out his hand,
with purple blue pinot grapes to taste.
The clouds parted again,
it was election day, but we, the proletariat playing hooky in
the vineyard were sheltered from the mess
of a country divided and sinking under the weight of billionaires and
how they can use money to make the sea wider and oilier.
After dinner my son practices his bass upstairs,
the sounds waft down, reverberate in my heart...
we read, and wait for our favorite cat to knock at the window.
Two years ago we were excited, we thought and hoped
we danced
Tonight we read to forget, and silently the waning moon rises
in a crystal clear sky
dotted with galaxies...
like little candles in the night wind.
The light tonight was soft and kind, orange peach alpenglow
lit the bluewhite mound of Mt Adams in the East.
What is it about maple trees, all goldeny between dark green firs,
we winding in dappled sun and shadow on the road
to pick ripe reisling grapes at the vineyard?
Whose life is this? Surrounded in rows of yellow leaved vines, mud cakes to my hiking boots
hands sticky from fruit, my lover holding out his hand,
with purple blue pinot grapes to taste.
The clouds parted again,
it was election day, but we, the proletariat playing hooky in
the vineyard were sheltered from the mess
of a country divided and sinking under the weight of billionaires and
how they can use money to make the sea wider and oilier.
After dinner my son practices his bass upstairs,
the sounds waft down, reverberate in my heart...
we read, and wait for our favorite cat to knock at the window.
Two years ago we were excited, we thought and hoped
we danced
Tonight we read to forget, and silently the waning moon rises
in a crystal clear sky
dotted with galaxies...
like little candles in the night wind.
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