Sacred in the Ordinary

"Your work is to discover your world, and then with all your heart give yourself to it" 
~Gautama Buddha

I'm finally done my chores, and now I can sit back, relax, read, write, or do nothing at all. I'm done folding the laundry, doing the dishes, cleaning the kitchen floor, I still need to take the trash out, but that can wait till tonight.

I never thought I'd say this, but I actually enjoy doing the dishes these days. Standing at the kitchen sink, looking over the geranium plant, out into the infinite blue sky, fluffy grey clouds, thousands of tiny black birds noisily flying across, it's always a different scene - alive and flowing. The water from the faucet, a steady stream, warm and soothing on my hands, I wash the dishes at a slow pace, no rush, no hurry.

There's something about the monotony of these chores that is somehow soothing. Picking up a piece of clothing from the laundry basket, folding it, and putting it on top of the pile of folded ones, then reaching for the next one, fold, set aside, then the next one, and the next one, and so on. Just like putting my attention on breathing during meditation, I'm pouring all my attention into this one movement - reaching, folding, putting it aside, reaching, folding, putting it aside.

Or when I'm sweeping the floor, starting at one corner and ending up at the other, gathering dust along the way, the same motion rhythmically repeating, over and over again, until I end up with a clean floor. It reminds me of the monks raking the stones in a Zen rock garden, the monk's complete concentration on the one movement, starting at the center and repeating it again and again until he reaches the outer edge, and a crisply raked garden.

The monotony is soothing, and the process very satisfying, but it's also satisfying to see a clean kitchen floor at the end of the process, a neat pile of folded laundry, or a clean, empty kitchen sink.

I try not to groan about my chores anymore, but wait for when I get time to do them slowly and peacefully. Like my great grandmother always said - anything that needs to be done is worth doing well. She was a strong, independent woman, and loved and worshiped God - she believed work is God, and lived it. She knew what she was talking about.

Peace is a Process

"Peace is not something you wish for; it's something you make,  something you do, something you are, and something you give away." ~Robert Fulghum

It's funny how everything boils down to thoughts - this seems to be the repeating theme in my journal, and yet I fall for the feelings that the thoughts dredge up, I buy into the emotions that the thoughts stir. Contentment and complaints are both products of my thoughts, but time and time again, I link them to my situation and surroundings.

I thought I was content a couple of days ago - everything seemed plain-sailing. And today, even though nothing's changed in my situation or circumstances, there are a few ripples on the surface - all my old dreams of where and how my life "should" be. And I start feeling that old uneasiness that things are not quite right. Two things keep coming up - quitting my job and doing something more contemplative; and living my life in solitude. And because I'm not able to do either of these, I feel like I'm doing something wrong and build up resentment.

Last night I was looking through some of Byron Katie's work to pass along to Mia, and it turns out that I needed to get those messages more than Mia. Byron Katie quickly broke down my "shoulds" into what they really are - just thoughts. My "heart's desire" (her phrase) is still what I want to do, but the discontent caused by my thoughts is what I can do without.

Because these dreams are my my soul's longings, I know it is just a matter of timing when they will come true - whether it's now, a little later, or in a different lifetime. Of course I want it all now, but who am I to question God's timing? He's proven time and time again that His timing is impeccable. But in my own humble way, I'll continue to keep my heart and path open to opportunity, continue to be grateful for what I get, rather than groan about what I don't have. This is my way to contentment, at least for this day.

Nature, the Best Teacher

I stand fluttery
Like a spring tree full of leaves
My thoughts new,
Fresh, green, exciting
I don't want to let them go
I want to revel in them, indulge in them

Like summer leaves the thoughts grow

Bigger, stronger, darker, fouler

Not so pure and innocent anymore

But the sun beams down, relentless

I stand lit up - good, bad and ugly

Under my mistakes I stand burdened
Like a fall tree full of its bloody leaves
But time goes on, and the leaves soften
Tender, thoughtful, ripe and wise

I let go of my thoughts, one by one
First the lightest ones,

Then the willing ones,

The winds blow some right off

And then there's none left
I stand naked, straight and tall
Soaking in the winter sun,
The soft warmth, the golden light.

The Mirage of my Image

What is the image I have of myself? That I'm shy, I mind my own business, I'm short, I don't like to talk much, I'm guilt-ridden, weak, I'm skinny, crooked, I have a scowly face, I react too quickly, I argue too much, sometimes pretty, sometimes awkward, stuck in a well paid job, I have dreams but I don't know how to achieve them.

Just reading about my image makes me feel it's true, but when I think deeper, I realize that I have to tell myself that it's just an illusion - a perception that my mind built up about me based on the outside body and thoughts. But if I disregard the thoughts, the body and the mind, then - who am I? My heart beats fast just thinking this. I am empty. I am thoughtless, mindless, bodyless - I'm nothingness. And that's enough. Why does this make me cry? Are these tears of relief, that I don't have to strive so hard to prove my worth? Are they tears of gratitude, that I can now put down the burden of my image? Who knew these thinner-than-air thoughts could be so heavy? That thoughts have a form more rigid than a solid object? Are they tears of acceptance, that I am enough?

My mind feels threatened when someone (or even myself) sees me differently than my image of myself. I actually don't even know how others see me. Even if they do tell me, or hint to me, what they think of me, I don't think I listen to them, take it in or change my opinion. I either promptly forget or totally disregard what they said, or try to fix their image of me. That's how strong and rigid my mind is of my image. Even though the image is imperfect, I still stick to it rather than change it. How sad is that?

So rather than try to fix my image (because it can never be made perfect), I think it's best that I try to de-solidify it, thaw it, melt it, make it thinner, lighter, more transparent. The only way this seems possible is to be constantly watching my mind, and not let it buy into, and hang onto, the solid particles of my thoughts so tightly; but to recognize and dwell instead on the spaces between them.

A Take Tells a Tale

You can do a lot of things alone, but it takes two to tango.

A trail of broken hearts, hanging by a slender cord

Blue and Green; Nothing in Between

From a purple heart blooms a soul so pure

Too fat... too thin... you just can't win!

Humpty, Dumpty sat on a wall so tall

What's up yo!?

The sky's aglow!

I Need New Glasses!

No, not literally. I need glasses for my mind - those that can make me focus on the right things: goodness, kindness, and humility; and blur out the surrounding chaos.

It's one of those days. Middle of the week. Pressure building before the big release. Things flying out at me from everywhere. People being snappy, short, show-offish, bossy - all of them out to prove something, prove they're better than others. But that's my one finger pointing. When I look at the other three fingers pointing at myself, I realize that's exactly what I'm doing - trying to prove my worth, that I'm better, that I can handle the pressure. But in reality, I'm buckling - I want to get out of this job and live a saner life. I'm snapping - all I see is sloppiness, people passing the buck and I get irritated. But when I look at my own work, that's what I'm doing too, for lack of time, just like everyone else.

At the beginning of the week, and the beginning of each day, I start off with good intentions, in my heart and mind, but in real world situations, I lose my heart, forget my mind - so totally that I don't even realize it until after the day is done and I'm looking back at the day to figure out why I'm feeling uneasy. This uneasiness, the slight restlessness, the feeling of being off-centered, is what brings me back to the bigger perspective. I have to switch out my zoom-in lenses to my zoom-out lenses. I need to remind myself that this day-to-day grittiness is what helps the grinder to polish the sharp edges smoother. And as I'm finding out, I have a lot of rough edges!

It's not pleasant being in the polishing tumbler for so long at a time, but that's how life chooses to teach to the not-so-fast learners like me. I'm slow - I don't seem to have the thirst or the enthusiasm of a fresh new student. I seem to go through my life like an old retiree trying to learn a new job - groaning, moaning and complaining. How I wish I could think of a way to lighten up while I'm in a heavy situation. How I wish I could remember to muster up energy and enthusiasm when I'm thrown into a new scene. How I wish I could remind myself at critical times to zoom out and get the big picture. The bigger perspective of how little, how insignificant I am when I look at myself, say from another galaxy. How insignificant is my life and what I do. It's actually a comforting feeling realizing that - knowing that this antsy world around me is just a little short-sighted right now. Life goes on the way life always goes on, whether I zoom in or zoom out. It's my perspective that needs to be adjusted as needed.

My perspective right now is that of gratitude - that the day is done, and I'm in bed, a full night's sleep ahead of me; I'm grateful that this day too did pass, and so will everyday, and every rough edge that I encounter. And if I learn something at the end of the day, then I'm thankful for my lessons, and my teacher, my life. Until then, I'll keep praying for those fancy zoom-out glasses.

As Without, So Within

A foggy fuzzy September morning
 Misty, murky, mostly gloomy

My vision is blurry - I only see faintly
Down the boulevard of broken boughs, their elbows bony,

Spindly arms cracking their whips, tightening their grips,

Onward, inward, forward, wayward

Until I feel blind and backward,
Frail and awkward

All I see is but a fragile path ahead

And some brassy baubles along the way I tread

I pick them as I go, compile my piles

I revel in my pretty possessions, wreathed in smiles
They are here today, gone tomorrow
And yet for now, I am fooled by their glow

When I finally look up I know I'm lost

In the endless fog, I hadn't noticed where my roads had crossed

I keep going anyway, fallen, lost, adrift, astray

Until I see a little ray, of hope, of promise, in all this grey

It's but a brief relief - a spot to rest
In a borrowed nest, just as a guest, 

But tomorrow - tomorrow I start again green, 

I won't stop for any brassy sheen
I'll keep going until I find the gold
I'll keep going until it's the Sun I behold

Flipping my Attitude to Gratitude

While I'm just getting over the pain in my neck, I have something new to deal with - bald patches! I don't know how long I've had them, but when my son pointed them out to me I freaked out. I found two big ones - each the size of a quarter, and another small one just starting. I called my sister the earliest I could and she said it was most likely due to stress. I never would have guessed I would have to worry about stress, but now that I think about it, how do I get rid of stress!? Short of quitting my job and running away to a mountain top where all I do is read and write, I can't think of a holistic solution to relieve stress. But as I start thinking I realize I can't just wait to retire and address it then - I have to start addressing it now, or risk the chance of losing all my hair!

The first thing that comes to mind is meditation, but I've been trying this for a long time now, and I feel like I'm going backwards. Then I remember the poem Mangala had sent me - Beannacht - to find a flock of color to chase away the ghosts of greys. I remember my old gratitude journal I had started more than 10 years ago when I had read Sarah ban Breathnach's Simple Abundance. It had tremendously changed my outlook on life - from complaining to compassion, from thoughtlessness to thankfulness, from self-pity to savoring precious moments.

I had maintained that journal for a while, off and on, but I haven't been rigorous about it lately, because I figured as long as my perspective has changed I don't really have to record it. But now that I'm watching my thoughts, I realize how absorbed they are on all the wrong things I do. I have this dream of being a simple, innocent being, open, honest, truthful, strong, and kind. And it kills me that I'm not all those. I suffer in self-guilt, for not being the person I want to be. But I really have to start making an effort at flipping my outlook - from finding all the things that are wrong with my life, to listing all the things that are right. I just assumed that I was already doing this in my mind, but when I actually sit and read my own mind, I seem to be spending more time on the black and grey sides of my world, than the colorful ones. I realize now that I have to make it a practice to pause and pay attention to all the everyday things that are beautiful and right - I want to notice them and make a note of sending up my thanks for them.

So here's what I'm grateful for today (from Saturday's journal) -

• Waking up early, on dark cool mornings, and watching the clouds while waiting for the sun to come up.
• The pleasant soreness in my body reminds me of the lovely long yoga session this morning
• The coffee and scone afterwards, sitting on a stone bench, hidden high up in the trees
• The first fall tree, falling water, counting rings on a fallen tree, lemony yellow leaves, sun and shade
• Visit to the pet shop with my son, to look at baby kittens
• Strings of starlings stretched across the sky at the end of the day, like a ruffled edge of a cloud-skirt
• My journal - it helps keep me sane

Mindwatching as a Hobby

I must say - as a hobby, watching my mind can get obsessive, but I'm not sure if I have a choice. Once in a while I lose track of it - I can't tell if I'm watching my mind, or just following its meaningless meandering.

I woke up at 4:30am this morning, when I heard Jazzy opening the door that I thought was closed quite tight. I let her out and then noticing that it's nicer outside than inside, I brought out my mat and slipped out myself. I did some yoga in the cool dawn air, everything all around me still dark, the birds still not awake, only the crickets chirping away ceaselessly. After yoga, I sat for a while trying to meditate, counting my breaths, counting my Oms, quieting my mind. But nothing seemed to work, so I started watching it - where it was going, what it was thinking, scheming, how it was rationalizing and justifying its own thoughts. My God, it was a cross between a raging fire and a raving monkey - it was swinging from thought to thought to thought until the whole forest was in flames and it still won't stop. My piddly attempts at meditation were like wimpy waterhoses dripping droplets of focus that were no match against the flying inferno that my mind was ferociously following.

If this is how a regular mind works, I'm shocked that I'm not insane yet! Or am I? If I lose myself in my own thoughts, in my very own bottomless pit of snakes, how will I ever crawl out alive? And yet, I don't seem to try to escape.

I do love being alone. I'm not afraid of myself. I think it's a good sign that I crave solitude - this, to me, is indication that I'm not running away from myself. If I'm to continue on this quest for soul, self and solitude, it's all the more imperative that I recognize any poisoning at all, however slow it maybe. Watching my mind helps. Just that alone seems to bring a touch of sanity to my thoughts. Mindfulness somehow seems to be the only thing to stanch the flow of the bitter venom from crawling too far up my veins. Maybe my meager meditations can somehow at least cool down the red tongue's thirst, if not quench it completely? And maybe if I'm mindful of being mindful more often, it can actually reverse the flow? I can only hope.

A Bit of Color, a Cloak of Love

As if in answer to the anguished questions of my grey soul, I got a poem in the mail from Mangala - it truly felt like a blessing getting it -

Beannacht

("Blessing")

On the day when

the weight deadens

on your shoulders

and you stumble,

may the clay dance

to balance you.

And when your eyes

freeze behind

the grey window

and the ghost of loss

gets in to you,

may a flock of colours,

indigo, red, green,

and azure blue

come to awaken in you

a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays

in the currach of thought

and a stain of ocean

blackens beneath you,

may there come across the waters

a path of yellow moonlight

to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,

may the clarity of light be yours,

may the fluency of the ocean be yours,

may the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And so may a slow

wind work these words

of love around you,

an invisible cloak

to mind your life.

-John O'Donohue

(Echoes of Memory)

Rowing between Black and White

Why is it so hard for me to live on the lands of Black and White?

Why am I always trying to smudge the borders?

Stretch the boundaries, erase the drawn lines?

Extend my stay, outstay my welcome in the rivers of Grey?

Where I'm never entirely evil, but never genuinely good;

Where I'm forever dodging bullets,

Never really shooting them down, or staying out of their way;

Where I'm constantly questioning my conscience,

Trying to reason with it, make deals with it;

Sometimes pure and straightforward,

Sometimes slimy and under the bridge.

But the truth is slippery, isn't it?

What's true today could be a lie in eleven days

What's truly true is the intention behind my action,

But who really looks at intentions, when the actions are greyish?

Maybe I should break down the grey matter into black and white again;

Try to see what's real and what's not;

What's true and what's not;

What's white and stays white.

How easy the words and colors sound on paper,

All broken down into neat little pixels of black and white.

The struggle is keeping them that way - apart and separate,

And not let a wet brush come near them.

Alas the power and pain!

Of being the painter of my own life.

Is there Zen in Pain?

 

"Instead of running away from pain, try embracing it.  
Be the pain."
- Palzang

It's the 4th morning I'm waking up with this agonizing pain, debilitating really, nothing like I've ever had before. I tried going back to sleep, but it's impossible when there's not a single position that feels comfortable. The only sounds I hear are crickets chirping, the fan creaking, and the clock ticking. 3:30am. I've been awake for a half-hour now, maybe an hour - I had no sense of time before this, except that it was dark. I sighed and gave up on sleep, and dragged myself up into sitting for meditation. As I close my eyes and try to breathe deeply, I realize even breathing hurts. I hadn't noticed till now that I was barely breathing, just taking in shallow wisps of air and letting out thin streams of it, so as not to move a muscle, a lung or even my diaphragm. A funny question came to my mind - is this living?

Strange things come to mind when I can't sleep at 3am - I remember reading a Buddhist book where a part of it had talked about sitting with the pain, rather than swallowing pills to chase it away; and I had thought to myself then that this was how I would like to experience pain myself when I'm older. What a noble way to experience and understand my own pain, by being with it, talking to it, feeling the nuances of it. I had hoped to remember this book when I was older, when I'd have aches creaking in my body. Little did I know then what I had wished for, and how quickly my wish would come true.

So here I am, trying to sit up straight and meditate, but it turns out that the focus for my meditation is not some abstract light in my forehead, but a very real pulse point of pain, alive, throbbing, excruciating. It gives me a perverse pleasure trying to angle my neck this way or that way, just to feel a different facet of the same pain. I was so focused on it in fact, that I hadn't even realized that my feet had fallen asleep, and were starting to have dreams of their own! So I loosened my limbs and buckled down to the ground. My body sighed with pleasure while my neck groaned with pain. And in this strange position - my head resting on two fists layered one on top of the other, my body folded in half, my feet flexed and toes turned under - like a Muslim performing his prayer, I slept fitfully until the cat woke me.

I don't think this pain is going anywhere - it stays with me day and night, but I'm relieved that the night is over and I somehow caught a few winks of sleep. And in a couple of hours, I have to go spend a day in front of my work computer - the thing that probably gave me the pain in the first place. Hmm... I wonder if my neck is trying to say something - in the language that it knows.

Buddhists practice sitting in Za-zen (I believe the Sanskrit word for this is Dhyan) everyday to maintain a balanced state of nervous system. Zazen sitting would help keep my spine straight, and adopt a good posture, which is something I've almost never been good at - so I have many years of bad posture to overcome! A good posture is supposed to take the pressure off my back, relieve stress on my neck, and help strengthen those muscles. In the meantime, this is what I have to practice -

• Not intend to overcome pain
• Not fear pain
• Accept pain as it is
• Just sit with the pain in the present moment

Clouds of Maya

Maya, by Anisha Bordoloi

Last night, when I sat outside to read, my eye kept being drawn to the sky - billowy clouds were languidly stretched across the sky, shaping and reshaping themselves, seemingly for no other reason except to entertain themselves. And me. So I gave up the pretense of reading and watched the clouds in earnest.

To me the few openings there were in the thick stretches of clouds seemed like tiny portals into Heaven. The openings were softly lit up in pink, in contrast to the thick white and grey clouds everywhere else. But where there were these gateways, the heavens looked divinely blue, giving me tiny glimpses of beyond. Beyond those pink gates, I imagined there were kingdoms of devas and angels, going about their business of making the world a little better, working out their karmas, without themselves being seen to us solid humans. I could make out the shape of a deva just beyond one of the gates holding out a tiny baby, maybe whispering into its ear secrets of his soul, and cautioning him against the wiles of his new world, before letting him go to make his entrance on the earth. It seemed like I was witnessing a precious passage happening right at that moment, over the threshold between heaven and earth, gods and humans, birth and growth, innocence and ignorance.

And then the clouds closed, the gates shut, the show's over. I fell back down to earth. But those few moments that I imagined, got carried away on, didn't feel unreal. They just felt like I got to be part of something ultra-real. The window into the other world was inviting, teasing with a taste of something else. Something less solid, less tangible, but still real.

When I realized the curtains closed on me, not because I was nosy, but because I had let my left brain take over, I was relieved to think that there might be a chance again to get a similar invitation again, into those elusive, illusive worlds, if only I'm willing to open myself up, still my mind, let the moment draw me in, and become a child again in that moment.

P.S. Anisha is a friend from my school days, and we just reconnected a few days ago - it's a divine connection this time around. She's a painter and a poet, and her husband, a photographer and a writer. Between them, they seem to have got all the arts covered! Please visit her website to see her wonderful work -Anisha's Paintings

One Lake, Many Moods

I took these pictures when we vacationed at a lake house in July. The words are from William B Yeats' poem: The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will rise and go now, and go to Innisfree

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee

And live alone in the bee-loud glade

And I shall have some peace there,

for peace comes dropping slow

Dropping from the veils of the morning to

 

where the cricket sings: There midnight's all aglimmer

And noon a purple glow

And evening full of the linnet's wings

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore

  while I stand on the roadways, or on the pavements grey

I hear it in the deep heart's core