March 6
Silent contemplation
Your glass?
Is your glass half-empty or half-full? The answer might be the most telling in regards to a well lived life… or not.
I find people with positive attitudes are happy no matter what is happening. Oh sure, they have bad days, sad days, and even mad days. But in the end, no matter what is going on, they seem to revert back to happy. Or content. Or just a fallback position that everything will be good in the end. Or maybe they just appreciate even the smallest bright light.
I’m lucky to be a half-full person. I don’t know how I would have survived without this glitch in my brain. It makes my life possible. It’s why I feel blessed.
This morning I watched an interview with Dr. Michio Kaku on the Daily Show. He’s written a book “The Future of the Mind” and I can’t wait to read it. As a practitioner of Tibetan Buddhism I am aware of the vast untapped miracles that happen in our heads… Dr. Kaku takes the premise a million steps farther. What I would give to hear a conversation between the Dalai Lama and Michio. And the thought that these new ideas and research can help people with Alzheimer’s and dementia gives the greatest hope to this growing tragedy so many face.
But back to the glass…
Life is not as straightforward as the simple joy of having a positive attitude. The best thoughts won’t get you far if you aren’t willing to walk-the-walk and do the work. An extra dose of compassion and kindness is essential. I also believe in karma playing a massive role in what this life hands us.
And don’t get me started on the contemplation of what that glass looks like. A wine glass, coffee mug, sippy cup, water goblet or whisky tumbler. I may be taking this a little too far.
What about you? Empty or full?
With Glowing Hearts
I’ve been watching the Olympics.
And I’ve been wearing my “blue jacket” from our 2010 Winter Olympics here in Vancouver. I loved being a volunteer and was thrilled to work on the opening and closing ceremonies.
My job was to be a “floater” and when I arrived for my volunteer shift I was sent to work where extra hands were needed. One day that meant setting up the VIP lounge where the celebs would wait before they went on stage. For several days it meant assisting with the “Mounties” that danced around while Michael Buble sang during the Closing Ceremonies. Some days I helped out in the basement of BC Place as the costumes were made for the Opening Ceremonies.
Of course I wrote a story about my time there… my “boss” saw the piece and it got posted all around the stadium. A very proud moment for me.
With Glowing Hearts
Six woman. Strangers. Sitting around a table. We’re cold.
The room is on the lowest level of BC Place Stadium. Does the heat ever get down here? Apparently not. And the portable heaters aren’t much help.
At first the conversation involves introductions. Short histories. Paths that brought us to this room. Then the work begins. A supervisor arrives to hand out today’s task. There’s a groan from a woman. She did this last week. “Not again”.
But we start. Piles of red and white knit toques are delivered to the room. The job? Tack all the brims to the precise measurement. They must all look the same. Exactly. Completely coordinated. The performers will wear them. They must be perfect.
This is our Olympic moment. This is my Olympic job.
We thread our needles and start. None of us can sew but we can do this job. Over and over. Again and again.
Conversation picks up and the camaraderie begins. Jokes are told. Ribbing starts. Laughter follows. Finished toques mount.
Endless people pass through the room. Checking on progress. Offering breaks. Some stressed. Some encouraging. All knowing the deadline is approaching.
The 2010 Olympic Opening Ceremonies Volunteer Support Team.
We will not cheer in the stands, dance on the stage, sing out our praises, carry a flag or light a flame.
But those absolutely even, steadfast toques worn by the performers are ours.
We are proud. This is our Olympic moment.
Shoes
I lost my favourite pair of shoes this week. This makes me sad. I loved those shoes.
They were only part of the reason I missed posting my blog this week. The other was a colonoscopy. Or to be more exact, what happened three hours after the procedure. You hear stories about how the prep for the exam is the tough part. Nowadays everyone has a funny story about that. I thought once I got back home it was over. It had only begun. The pain started and escalated quickly. I knew my only option was to head back to the hospital’s ER.
I also knew it would be wise to only take as much cash as I needed for bare essentials. I took off my watch and good earrings but grabbed my phone charger. I was afraid about what would happen to me. I made my bed. I didn’t think about which shoes to wear.
I was quickly admitted to the ER. The nurse said my vitals were all elevated and I was “credible.” I’m sure it was also noted I had left the hospital only hours before and now there was a problem. They started the morphine. It did nothing for the pain.
Then came the parade of doctors and interns and nurses. All with the same questions. All with the same concerns. Something must have gone very wrong. I was sent for x-rays and a CT scan. Everyone was polite and concerned.
They kept upping the morphine. Hours slipped by. I sent out short emails cancelling work. I read the worried replies. At some point two dear friends showed up at my bedside. Even writing this now brings tears to my eyes. They marched in to take care of me. They showed up. They stepped up. I will never be able to thank them enough. They made me laugh. They put up with my morphine induced proclamations and took some incriminating photos.
The doctors figured out the problem. A fluke. And statistically speaking; a 3-in-100,000 chance of this happening. Very rare. The head doctor had only seen it once before. The nurse took great glee in googling it. I would survive. It may take a while but I would be fine.
The doctor that had performed the simple colonoscopy that started it all came by. She said, “I’m so sorry.” The concern on her face was more powerful than her words. I told her as a Buddhist I was meant to treat this as a time to learn empathy for all the people in pain and in an ER. But I also explained I could only think this way because the morphine had taken hold. She said she was sorry a few more times.
I spent 22 hours in the ER before they found a bed for me. I was beyond tired and only wanted to sleep. During the transfer to the ward they asked if I had all my possessions. I was lying on a stretcher beside a bag of my clothes and had my purse with the bare-bones wallet and phone. “Yes, I’ve got everything.”
The ward was hell and I wanted to get home. I couldn’t sleep and had no paper to write my blog. I had missed my Wednesday post. Within 12 hours I was talking to the doctor, asking to be released. I don’t like hospitals.
He said I was one of the lucky ones and would recover quickly. I still felt like shit but knew he was right. The last four days had been hell, but the worst was over.
At least I thought it was until I took off that dreaded hospital gown and got dressed. My shoes were not in the bag.
I loved those shoes.
Believe Me
The world was so different back then. We didn’t talk about these things except in hollow whispers. Children held no power. What did we know? Who had our backs?
For the last few days I watched, read, and listened to the storm surrounding Dylan Farrow and Woody Allen with a weird sense of wonder and glee. Yes, glee. I’m old enough to remember the accusations hurled at Allen twenty years ago and I’m thrilled they are back in the news. If I met Dylan in person I would opt for a “good work!” and a high-five.
Ever since the allegations all those years ago I’ve refused to watch a Woody Allen movie. And not because of the woman he married, but because of what he did to Dylan. It’s been one of my little stances against people who sexually abuse children. When he got that award on the Golden Globes I walked away from the TV while Diane Keaton was speaking. I find it annoying that this man has flourished. I’m embarrassed for mankind that we somehow allow this.
Forty years ago I told the adults around me what my step-father had been doing to me. Somehow my story didn’t seem credible to them and I was not believed. They did believe my step-father’s version of events. My mother even sided with him. In my world no one had my back.
I was fifteen at the time and survived. I can’t even imagine how a seven year old would feel. Thank goodness Dylan had a supportive and strong mother. I could have used that.
But the story we are all watching is not about me. I believe the story is about how we are as a society. How precious are our children? How far will be go to protect them?
We should stop the media hype, stop the lawyer talk, and stop the endless conversations and debate.
Only one thing matters…
When a child asks for help we should all step up.
Serendipity
I love serendipity. I love those little connecting moments. Some people believe you are in a state of heightened awareness when you start to notice these things.
Like when you first fall in love with someone… you marvel at how many things you have in common, how it all seems like fate… how it was so meant to be. “Oh my goodness, his middle name is the same as my favourite uncle’s… we both hate sushi and Bob Dylan… we must be meant for each other!!”
It’s really bullshit.
But I like looking at it. Connecting dots. I do it for my own amazement. It’s probably the reason I also enjoy astrology. The phases of the moon, the ebb and flow of currents. I like coinciding dates and time. I won’t bore you with examples, but life and happenstance can be pretty strange. Usually it all passes by without us even noticing.
I’m obviously in a heightened straight of awareness right now, no, I’m not in love with someone, I’m writing a blog and already on my second pint.
But that’s not the point. And to be honest there really is no point. Or maybe the point is that with our busy lives we don’t stop and really notice the little moments that make life seem special.
Special and strange… I am looking out across a beach to a rocky crag where I stood nine months ago and took a picture of the spot where I’m sitting right now. That stunning photo is the homepage on my computer.
There is no explanation except a magic bit of serendipity that has allowed me to be here again and experiencing the weird paradigm shift of looking back at myself.
Or maybe just pure bullshit and I shouldn’t have ordered that second pint if I had not finished writing my blog.
Or maybe the person I can see off in the distance, standing on that crag will show up in this room later on. We will end up chatting, we will be amazed at the serendipity of the chance meeting… and we might both be amazed to equally hate Bob Dylan.
God I love serendipity.
Mr. Burns
At about 4am this Saturday, January 25, 2014 there will be a shift in the universe. You might not feel is where you live, and it might not be the lead story on the news radio station, but I will tweet about it. The fact will cause a stir! For the first time in 22 years I will turn on my oven.
Saturday is Robbie Burns Day. And I will be heating two rather large haggis for the SFU Centre for Scottish Studies “3rd Annual Robbie Burns Day Marathon Reading.” We plan on breaking the world record for the “longest continual recitation of Burns’ poetry and song.” Our goal is 6 hours. We will prevail.
-Well known fact, I don’t cook at home. I’m famous for not using my oven. My friends will have a hard time believing I will do this.-
I created this crazy event and it’s my job to make it happen. This entails coordinating all the participants, promoting it everywhere and to everyone, and basically taking care of all the bits and pieces. That’s where the haggis comes in. People expect to eat haggis on Robbie’s day and I better deliver some… and it better be hot!
My favourite part of the event is chatting with all the people. Everyone seems to have a story to tell about the poem or song they want to recite. Everyone wants to share their thoughts. And so often, someone has a story that will break your heart. Voices have cracked and tears have flowed. I’ve spent hours on the phone not just booking a time slot for the marathon, but hearing the detailed background of treasured memories. I’ve discovered Burns and his words have the power to evoke strong emotions.
I hear about “a mother, long gone, and her favourite poem”, “a song heard while looking out over a glen” and even a book passed on through generations. I hear about glorious parties from years ago… and intimate whispers of souls not forgotten.
This event started as a vehicle to promote the Centre for Scottish Studies. Little did I know I would come face-to-face with the power of the written word. Robert Burns deserves this day… we need to celebrate him.
And who else would have the clout to get me to turn on my oven. It is a miracle.
Luckily I enjoy a good haggis.
Nothing
I should be flattered, all day long people have been asking, “Where’s the blog?”
Why I promised I would post every Wednesday I will never know? But I do know! I’m lazy and if I didn’t make the commitment I would blog a few times then life would get in the way and weeks and maybe even months would go by without a word. I am predictable. And clever enough to justify every procrastination. So I made the promise to blog.
I posted my first blog on May 29, 2013. Since then I think I’ve missed two Wednesdays. A pretty good record.
This past week I started writing my second book. The stories for the book could have been made into blogs but I thought they were a little too “booky”. This left a void for today. So for the last 13 hours I have bounced countless ideas around in my head about what to write. Nothing grew to more than a simple thought or at most a sentence or two.
See what I mean…
“People should take down their Christmas lights”
“I’m seeing my family doctor today for the last time. She is retiring and has been my doctor for 20 years. We’ve been through a ton together. Way too many pap-smears!!”
“YoYo Ma is coming back to Vancouver and I have tickets!”
“I’ll say it again, if you want to lose weight, eat less…. Really, eat less!”
“Why do people give people the silent treatment?”
“Will we have enough people to read Robbie Burns’ poetry on January 25 to break the 6 hour world record for continual recitations?”
“Don’t even get me started on Woody Allen”
“No matter what you are doing, listening to great music can make anything better!”
I bet I could have made a blog out of each and every one of these thoughts… but I promised a funny, ironic and happy topic this week and that would have been a stretch. OK, the piece about Woody would have been funny, and I bet I could have made you smile with a rant about January weight loss schemes!
Next week will be much better. I promise.
Sharks
The long line to board the ferry resulted in a chat with the young woman next to me. First about the horrendous amount of “walk-ons”, then bemoaning that being at the end of the line there would be no seats and we would probably be sitting on the floor for the journey. It was January 1st and everyone was trying to get home.
As we started loading I said this would be the time to splurge on the ferry’s buffet lounge, sit at a nice table and eat some decent food. She said she couldn’t afford those types of perks. We boarded and the entrance to the lounge was right there. I said, “Let’s go, my treat!” She smiled and followed.
We got a table and food and started to talk. As so often happens with me, I quickly heard her heartbreaking story. It wasn’t hard to guess, she had a cloud around her.
I tried to give her hope; to say is does get better. But does anyone in a hole with no ladder feel there is truly a way out?
Then I told her about the shark. Being a sexually abused child is like having a leg bitten off by a shark. Painful, horrendous, disgusting and life altering. And guess what, for the rest of your life you won’t have that leg. It will never grow back. But here’s the thing, we can give you crutches to get around. Then we can teach you to hop. You’ll be like a rabbit! If you’re lucky at some point we’re going to fit you with a fake leg. You will walk again. Then in time we’ll get you some fancy options. One of those legs to run with and even one you can wear when you go dancing. Most of the world will never know the shark stole your leg.
Now the hard truth. We can’t give you your old leg back. It is gone forever. This is your new life. Not perfect but doable.
So my advice. Stop thinking about the shark. Stop thinking about your old leg. Stop. Your life has changed forever. Start thinking about how you’re going to run and dance with the new leg.
But who was I to talk, just an old woman who lost her leg to a shark decades ago. She could see I was fine. I don’t think she noticed the reflection of an echo held behind my eyes. Very few would ever see that sometimes late at night I still dream of the days when I had both legs.
To see this damaged young woman made me mad. How can we let child abuse still happen? You’d think we would have fixed the problem by now. When will enough be enough?
When are we going to purge the sharks?
First Light
I cover myself with a veil. If you look carefully you can see it but to most it’s hidden or maybe invisible. On January 1st at dawn’s first light I can be found at a ceremony reaffirming my pervasive intent. Reaffirming my basic nature, or at least the nature I aspire to… my Buddha Nature. This is the veil that covers me and all I hope to be. Sometimes I hold it close and sometimes it seems to blow in the wind. After all these years I have never let it go.
At the First Light Ceremony I will say the prayers and light a small candle. I will meditate and contemplate. Follow my breath and attempt to calm my mind. Most likely I will fail at the calming of the mind, but the intent will count.
Whether I awake in a monastery, or at home alone, or at a secluded mountain retreat, or in the arms of someone I love; each year on January 1st I perform the First Light Ceremony.
It’s a way to remind myself to “be kinder, do more, make this matter”. A touchstone to renew my Tibetan Buddhist practice.
For much of the western world the focus will be to lose weight, find a better job, quit smoking, fall in love or exercise more. All doable and admiral goals for 2014.
I will admit. I do write down a list of goals each year. But then again I write down a list of goals each New Moon. It’s a double whammy this year with January 1st also being a New Moon. So yes, there will be a list of goals from me.
But the aspiration I will make at the First Light Ceremony will be to be kind for the next 24 hours. No matter what happens, be kind. I’m going to give it my best shot.
And about that veil, I will make sure it is tied tightly around me knowing it is not a safety net, but a comforting embrace. With that thought, I will walk out into the world.
Recent Comments