Zen Garden

No, not the rock kind.  Our haphazard greenscape along our rock wall.  Every year, we overbuy flowers and enthusiastically plant them, forgetting in a few weeks to water and weed them, so they invariably die.  Unless they are extremely hardy (and really, who wants to baby a plant?  How did species make it this far without us??).  Like hostas, the ever-present purple-bloom spiderwort (my favorite), a miniature rose bush, and fragrant, quickly spreading mint.  Still, we cheerfully putter in our garden each year and enjoy the early endeavors.

But this year has been different.  We're actually still taking care of our plants.  Every morning while waiting for the bus, Sis and I peruse the wall, checking on new buds--look, some strawberries!--and even weeding!  We're learning the names of the plants together, noticing more bugs and birds, absorbing the natural cycle of life.  Then as the bus pulls away, I find a few spare minutes to water what needs it, which hasn't been very necessary with all this rain.  I like watering the plants, standing there directing the spray, listening to the sounds of the morning.  It's rather meditative.

Our plants are still very much on their own--no fertilizer or weed killer, haphazard weeding and watering, so only the strong ones make it.  But we're giving them a chance . . . and it's benefitting us all.

Quiet Corner

We have long had a designated "quiet corner" in our living room.  No, that's not code for the so-called "naughty chair" or timeout spot.  It's just a spot where the kids can go to be alone but nearby.  Maybe we should call it the "I need to be not-near you right now" corner.

Anyway, the corner has some new accessories:  our glitter meditation jar, a Japanese rin gong, and a framed print of the Four Limitless Qualities, all on a table brought from Thailand by Ma and Gong.  While the glitter jar has been used repeatedly, the gong is our new go-to for calming down.  It was christened, so to speak, on Thursday when Sis won a raffle at math night, choosing a Sudoku-like game, and Bud didn't.  She was ecstatic; he was upset.  I'd just gotten the bowl in the mail, at Mama's request, and we all sat around striking with the padded hammer, listening until we couldn't hear the clear ring anymore.  Then we'd do it again.  And again.  Soon, all the angry and upset thoughts settled in Bud's mind just like glitter in the jar.

Now, with the table, we can all reach the gong or jar anytime we need a little peace or quiet.

All of us.

A Good Day

I had looked forward to Saturday for weeks:  my first meditation class!   With Sharon Salzberg!  To prepare, I talked with other meditators and the studio to check on accomodations for me (could I stand in the back?  were there places to lie down?  do they have breaks?).  I practiced getting up and down off the floor, tried to extend my sitting time, read Sharon Salzberg's Real Happiness, even practiced meditating without falling asleep (harder than you think since I meditate lying down on my side!).   I got a yoga mat, put on my comfortable black pants, packed my lunch of apple and granola bar.

And then Saturday was here!  Mama and the kids dropped me off at the studio in Hartford and then they headed to lunch at the Rainforest Cafe and then to the Connecticut Science Center.  I was immediately in an environment quite alien to me (not "ancient astronaut alien," but still  unfamiliar).  First, I took off my shoes right at the front door and walked around the whole place in my very white socks, just like everyone else--even the bathroom!  I was surprised that my socks were still quite white at the end of the day.  I wandered the boutique, filled with stylish yoga clothes and accessories, which were modeled by many of the other class participants. Tight, stretchy black pants, earthy-colored fitted shirts, rolled-up mats of various kinds carried in special bags with the latest Gaiam pattern, green smoothies and tea drinks in various bottles, Mother Goddess and Chakra jewlery.  I felt a little intimidated and out of place because it was all so unfamiliar to me. 

I quickly found a good spot in the large studio, against the back wall where I could spread out my yoga mat and positioned a chair so I can get up and down.  There were about 100 other people, mostly women, mostly white, mostly older than me, but still some men, people of color, and younger people.  I got to chatting with a woman who is studying to be a yoga teacher and was attending this class as part of her training.  We continued to chat at each break.

In walked Sharon Salzberg, renowned Buddhist meditaiton teacher, co-founder of the Insight Meditation Society in Barre, MA, and author of several books. She wasn't in robes (I don't believe she holds a dharma lineage, though she has studied in Burma and India), nor was she exceptionally earthy (no beads or shawls or such).  What preconceptions I had!   I was reminded that there is the Buddha inside everyone  Because she looked like she could be my neighbor.  She has a very soothing voice, neither high nor low, and not breathy like NPR presenters, and with enough character to keep you focused.  I had been listening to her guided meditations on CD and her voice was exactly like that in person.  

In fact, she told us several stories, including one about her voice.  People often tell her that they like her voice and she likes that.  But she recognizes the Eight Vicissitudes of Buddhism (pain/pleasure; gain/loss; praise/blame; fame/disrepute) and knew that with fame came disrepute.  She was told by the teachers of a class that she was to visit that the members of the class had said her voice was annoying; the teachers couldn't bring themselves to announce her upcoming visit!  "Good voice, bad voice, one voice," she laughed.

There were lots of stories and lessons:

• discussion the rural origins of Buddhism and the use of farming metaphors ("cultivating the ground")
• the oral origins of Buddhism and the use of lists for memory (a list of lists at the bottom here)
• definition ("what you place your heart upon") and types of faith (bright, verified, and abiding)
• the connectedness of concentration, mindfulness, and lovingkindness
• how meditation does not require beliefs, is portable, and . . . one other thing I just can't recall!
• Buddha's advice for sleepiness during meditation, including open your eyes, tug your earlobes, and take a nap!
• the wise cabby who got stuck in traffic taking her to a Thich Nhat Hanh lecture, for which she apologized to him.  He said, "You did not cause the traffic.  Neither did I.  It just is."  "Why did I need Thich Nhat Hanh?!" she wondered.  Though she told us that someone else ponders, when stuck in traffic, "I am the traffic."
• proliferation as the unencumbered multiplication of thoughts or add-ons
• the meaning of mindfulness, which is paying attention to current circumstances and our reactions so that we do not act out of conditioned habitual responses, or "small moments many times" and "looking with quiet eyes."  
• beginning meditators and mindfulness, who asked if, when they hear the fire alarm, do they just note it and continue meditating instead of having aversion and acting in response?  She said, "I'd get up."  Apparently, when she began meditating 40 years ago in India, it wasn't fire alarms but elephants walking towards you on the road!   

Most of this can be found in her books and my short list does not in any way do justice to her explanations or delivery; it only captures the breadth of what she touched upon.

In between it all, we had breaks and lunch.  I purchased some tidbits in the cafe--crackers, coconut water, oat and fruit protein bar--and ate them with my apple; later, I got a coconut-almond-rice milk shake by Amazake.  I browsed in the shop, picking up a new book, a new bolster, and a bracelet.   The bolster I had tested during meditation, which I spent on the floor either on my side or on my back (I stood for her discussions and Q&A, pacing some on my mat, but without my shoes, on the hard floor, I didn't last that long; the bolster supported my bent knees--other people sat on them, or put their legs on the chairs, or lay flat, or knelt on cushions, almost as many postures as people.)  I even spoke to Sharon during the first break, thanking her for offering the teachings.  

Most powerful were the five sittings we did, each about 20 minutes.  She guided us through the first one, just as on the CD and we did three more on our own.  The last one was metta, or lovingkindness, meditation, again guided by her, like on the CD.  I'm not even sure I can put my experiences into words, only that it was some of the most centering, energizing, inspiring meditation I've done.  Sure, my mind wandered from my breath and the phrases frequently--so much stimulation in the day (and there were 100 other people coughing, shifting, etc)--but I brought it back each time.  "That is the practice," she repeated, "the moment of starting over is the practice."  I got a lot of practice!  More importantly, I've meditated each day since then, so the class revitalized my practice.  "If you described your Saturday--I watched my breath and started over  when I got distracted--that's a good day," she said.

It was, both physically and spiritually.  And I can't wait to try something like it again.

Singing My Meditation

A few weeks ago we had a special music service at church led by UU musician Sarah Dan Jones, who wrote the singing meditation, "When I Breathe In."  Combining spoken and sung word, she explored how to create community through music--ingathering, prayer, social justice, celebration, and the like.  She sang with the kids and led us in rounds and we swayed and clapped (on the 2-4 beat) in that slightly stiff UU way.

I like to sing and enjoyed the service very much, probably more so because she was so encouraging of regular singers like me.  Singing has been on my mind recently, with All Together Singing in the Kitchen, "Glee," and our new keyboard.  And I'm trying to incorporate singing back into our and my day.  When the kids were young, I'd sing so much more--clean-up songs, getting dressed songs, wake-up songs, lullabies, blessings at mealtime--but somehow that has been replaced by the iPod.

I'm especially intrigued by the idea of singing as a meditation, having picked up the book Singing Meditation: Together in Sound and Silence by Ruthie Rosauer and Liz Hill, which explains what, how, and why.  I read the whole thing in one sitting and found it intriguing, even though I didn't need the chapters on becoming a leader or leading a session.  But the discussion of the perceived tensions between text and music, the connection to the divine through tonal vibrations, the interplay between sound and silence, the forms of silent spirituality (prayer, meditation, and contemplation), the discussion of singing prayers in history throughout the world, the exploration of  current singing traditions from kirtan to Taizé, the outline of the typical Singing Meditation gathering, even how singing is something we've abandoned to the professionals that we should reclaim, were all thought-provoking.

Taizé.  I had seen that word on the banner of a local church for years now and vaguely wondered what it was, never investigating.  Now I know.  Taizé is an ecumenical Christian community in France dedicated to creating peace through worshipping in chants and now a worldwide movement in song and prayer directed at youth.  The Singing Meditation group seeks to create a similar practice specifically for UUs.

Now, I don't find that UUs are great hymn singers and are rather reserved in general, though so many members are trained musicians (both at my last and current congregations).  But we all seem to find value, meaning, and inspiration in music. Interestingly one of my most powerful memories of my early church-going was singing in my Southern Baptist church choir's production of Come, Messiah, Come.  I loved the showtune-like songs ("Come, Messiah, Come.  Come chosen one of Israel . . . " and "This is the day that the Lord hath made/We will rejoice and be glad!"), I loved the story (kids in an orphanage in the Holy Land at the time of the Crucifixion/Resurrection!), I loved the performance (and my costume!). But a few negative interactions--a kid in the audience making fun of me in school the next week, another kid warning me about ever signing up for choir in school because they made you sing outloud, not getting a part in my high school musical when my best friend did--turned me off singing, though I did try to reclaim my voice as a member of Chicago's lesbian-feminist chorus Artemis Singers (I made great friends but wasn't a great singer; luckily, they were open.).  And I always loved singing around the campfire in Girl Scouts.  Now, I am shy about singing in church at times, very aware of my not being able to read music or sing in tune.  I want to reclaim some of that earlier joy.   I'm looking forward to including more song in my daily practice, including some of my favorite songs sung in UU services (as far as I can recall; my hymnal is missing):

• "Enter, Rejoice, and Come In"
• "Come, Sing a Song With Me"
• "Come, Come Whoever You Are"
• "I Hear Music in the Air"
• "Where Do We Come From?  Who Are We? Where Are We Going?"
• "Keep On Moving Forward"
• "Walk in Beauty"
• "What Could One Little Person Do"
• "How Could Anyone?"
• "Singing for Our Lives"
• "Finlandia"
• "Blue Earth Home"
• "Wake, Now, My Senses"
• "Fire of Commitment"

My Next Epic Win

I haven't posted about Super Better much recently, both because my usage of it waned a bit after Christmas and because they are revamping the site and will introduce a new one soon.  Until then, I want to do a little Super Better bit here, because I have a new "Epic Win":  in a month or so, I'm going to a formal meditation class!  I'm very excited but also a bit nervous.  That's where Super Better comes in.

Epic Win:  Meditation class (1/2 day)

Allies:  Mama Hungry; family and friends; my faithful blog readers; my physical therapist; my minister; Toni Bernhard (author of How to Be Sick); the staff and teacher at the class

Bad Guys:  anxiety; fatigue; ruminating; discomfort;  isolation; unfamiliarity

Quests (in preparation for the Epic Win):

• walk on the treadmill 45 minutes everyday
• do my PT stretches and exercises everyday
• meditate everyday
• work on getting up and down off the floor with PT, if she says ok (I can't do this at all right now)

Power-Ups (pick-me-ups):

• "Born this Way" and other songs on my hits list
• socializing with friends
• blogging
• reading
• eating dinner with the family
• sitting up
• going to church
• walking on my treadmill

Power Boosts (smaller accomplishments to look forward to before then):  

• Spring!
• our now-weekly Whole Foods trips
• finishing the cookbook and docent training

Hero Status:  Super Mommy Hungry!

Another Great List

If you liked my personal list of resources for meditation, check out Mindful.org's list of mindfulness books.  I'm putting Wild Chickens and Petty Tyrants: 108 Metaphors for Mindfulness and One-Minute Mindfulness at the top of my list.

Namaste, Daisies

Today, Sis and her Daisy troop explored yoga with one of my co-leaders, sixteen girls stretching and moving with their young, flexible, strong bodies.  They did a meditation Starbright: Meditations for Children by Maureen Garth, heard the story The Happiest Tree by Uma Krishnaswarmi, danced with scarves and practiced various poses to the music of Kira Willey, played a cooperative yoga game called Yoga Garden, and followed the leader in these poses:
 
*Sun Salutaion
*Mountain Pose
*Ragdoll
*Plank Pose
*Cobra/Snake
*Dog Pose
*Butterfly
*Peacock
*Pretzel Spinal Twist
*Chair Pose
*Flamingo 
*Child's Pose
*Tree Pose
*Bridge Pose
*Cat Pose (angry and happy!)


It was a wonderful hour of union of mind, body, and spirit.


(Gommie, I'll get the Yoga Garden Game for you to play the next time you're here--you'll be the only adult who can!)



 

My Leap

Trying to embrace today as something unique, I tried to go about my day as a mini-retreat, combining healthy activities, relaxation and rejuvenation, and pleasure.  Sure, I'm home everyday, but that doesn't mean everyday is like a spa day here.  But I tried to make today one.  I ate delicious, nourishing whole foods (all vegan so far), including museli and coffee with cardamom, a portabello/kale/potato saute, celery sticks with dip, an apple with sunflower butter, and some nuts, seeds, and dried fruit, with lots of water, tea, and a homemade elderflower soda.  I walked on my treadmill for 45 minutes while listening to my current audiobook, Tracey Chevalier's tale of Regency lady-fossil hunters in Lyme Regis, Remarkable Creatures.  I did my PT exercises, including a "mandala" of lunges in different directions, some wall push-ups, and other strengthening movements.  I followed along to my lovingkindness meditation CD.  I read a chapter from Ellen Galinsky's wordy but enlightening discussion of life skills for children, Mind in the Making, for my school book club.  The book talked about studies that showed it was never too late to learn a language, so I started up my neglected Italian lessons again. I baked a lovely and fragrant gingerbread bread (aka Hodge-Podge Yeasted Gingerbread from King Arthur Flour's Baking Sheet.  Alas, not vegan.)  I crocheted a tiny bit, for the first time in a long while, inspired by the prayer shawls at church on Sunday, and wrote a letter.  I did a refreshing mid-afternoon teeth-brushing, face-washing, hair-combing perk-me-up routine.

And now I'm ready for the second part of my day, when the kiddos come home on the bus in about 20 minutes.  I don't know what our leap day will look like together--it's rainy outside which prohibits yesterday's activities of fairy-house building and pretend-mixing-"chocolate"-mud-on-a-metate-grindstone-like-the-colonists-did.  But I hope it's as wonderful as the first part of my day was.

Links to Meditate Upon

Recently, a friend asked me to compile some links and resources about meditation and mindfulness.  And so I thought I'd share them with you.  There are so many more books and resources that I haven't listed here.  Below you'll find some of my favorites (from a variety of Buddhist traditions such as Zen, Tibetan, and Theravadan as well as secular sources):

• My first exposure to the meditation of counting breaths was through Zen priest and author Karen Maezen Miller; her blog includes instructions.  
• Theravadan practitioner Toni Bernhard's book How to be Sick (and my post on her book) has many mindfulness practices (often short practices for in-the-moment usage) for addressing pain, panic, anxiety, etc. based on her own Buddhist practice and decade-long struggle with chronic illness.  She has also recently posted, on her Psychology Today blog, about metta meditation (lovingkindness), which is my current practice.  Sharon Salzberg's Real Happiness is another guide to meditation (I just got this one--it has a CD with several guided meditations).  there's also Salzberg's book, Lovingkindness.
• The body scan is a mindfulness practice often used  to address pain (from Bernhard's website or NPR's piece with Jon Kabat-Zinn, author of Full-Catastrophe Living); an unintentional consequence, it's also great for falling asleep!  I have this scan on CD.  While I believe Kabat-Zinn might be a Buddhist, his approach to meditation is secular and has been studied extensively through his famous center at UMass School of Medicine.
• American Tibetan-Buddhist nun Pema Chodron's When Things Fall Apart:  Heart Advice for Difficult Times talks about how (and why) to embrace uncomfortable, painful situations.  She advocates tonglen meditation and I have a recording of her guiding the meditation (an overview here at Shambhala Sun).
• On mindful eating, which is an intriguing practice, I posted after reading an article in the NYTimes.  There is also a book by Zen master Jan Chozen Bays entitled Mindful Eating.  (I've also posted on "mindful baking," inspired by Edward Espe Brown.)
• Shambhala Sun, a magazine for Buddhists, had a special "how to meditate" issue.  There's also "Sit Every Day" and an article on walking meditation (something I've tried to adapt to my gait with limited success).
• There is also a new website, Mindful.org, with many meditation and mindfulness resources.
• These are the ones I rely on now, but I am constantly finding others to read, such as His Holiness the Dalai Lama's How to Practice, Thich Nhat Hanh's The Miracle of Mindfulness, Jan Chozen Bays's How To Train a Wild Elephant, Jack Kornfield's After the Ecstasy, The Laundry, and Sylvia Boorstein's Pay Attention, For Goodness' Sake.  I'm also looking for books for children, both fiction (like Moody Cow or Anh's Anger) or non-fiction (such as Thich Nhat Hanh's Planting Seeds and David Fontana's Teaching Meditation to Children.)

LovetheKindness

May I be comforted.


May I be at ease.

I've been working on my metta, or lovingkindness, meditation resolves, the phrases I repeat for myself and others, trying to find three or four that really fit for me.  This meditation, more than counting my breath or the body scan or the similar tonglen, speaks to me now, as do the words of the metta sutta, or Buddha's instructions on lovingkindness (particularly the part about loving everyone as a mother loves her only child).  I first read about it in Toni Bernhard's How to Be Sick and have since then read several books by Sylvie Boorstein which include her own metta practice.  Just yesterday, I received Sharon Salzberg's Lovingkindness, which delves deeply into the practice, and Real Happiness, which includes a CD with a guided meditation.  And today, I've just read a wonderful explanatory post by Bernhard over at her blog, "Turning Straw into Gold," on Psychology Today--this is a great place to start if you'd like to learn more and give it a try.  (I'd love to study meditation more formally, with a sangha or on a retreat, such as the Insight Meditation Society in MA co-founded by Salzberg, but current circumstance dictate I do it mostly on my own right now.  Thankfully, there are so many wonderful resources, such as the above, to study.)

I find myself repeating my resolves, and others that I'm trying out, not only during formal meditation periods but almost as prayers, when I hear an ambulance go by ("May they be at ease") or hear about an illness or death ("May they be comforted") or even when I panic or feel discomfort ("May I be at ease.")  I've even led the children through the phrases as we wish health and ease and comfort through expanding concentric circles from ourselves through our friends and family to teachers and doctors and on through people (and penguins and bunnies) we don't know, ending with wishing things for the whole world.  They like it so much that they request it.  I know that's not the formal practice, but I've been trying to integrate my meditation practices and my study of Buddhism into our family life.  We've read Moody Cow Meditates and have our swirling glitter jar to help us quiet our minds when anger arises.  But I wanted something . . . more connected, more kind, more loving.

I think I've found it.

Minding My Ps* and Tea

There was an article in Wednesday's Dining Section of the NYTimes on mindful eating which included an introduction to the topic and a few practices to try at home.

And so I made today's lunch a mindfulness practice, having done it before a few times with the kids.  It was a deli lunch for me, a treat I allow myself now and then when I am tired of bean soup or longing for a quick midday chat.  So I walked to the deli in the warming sunlight, watching the squirrels and birds flit about, no doubt preparing for snow tomorrow.

I ordered one of my usuals:  a wrap with potato chips and an iced tea.  To be exact:  a whole-wheat wrap containing a spring lettuce mix, avocado chunks, dried and sweetened cranberries, goat cheese (sure, not vegan--it's my 20%), shredded (or specifically julienned) carrots, and a balsamic vinaigrette.  I always have them hold the tomatoes and cucumbers, which I don't like; 40% reduced fat Cape Cod kettle potato chips; and a Nantucket Nectar Half and Half lemonade iced tea.

I walked back to the house and settled in on the couch downstairs, determining to sit through the whole meal.  No music, no tv, no book, no email, no smartphone.  Usually, I have one or more of those during lunch, fighting away the long silences and absences with noise and stimulation.  That's two mindful eating techniques at once:  eat in silence and, when you eat, only eat.

And so I did.  The first thing I noticed was how much packaging there was--the glass bottle with its pop cap, the plastic bag to tear open, the sandwich not only in its own separate bag in the bigger bag but also in parchment paper and on a plate.  Lots of waste.

I think I always start with my drink, sweet and acidic and cold but an ugly brown color, and then a chip, salty and crunchy, but not too salty, and thin with blistered bubbles on the fried surface.  Then the wrap, with its chewy mottled brown doughy wrap encasing a burst of color--dark red rounds of cranberry, bright orange sticks of carrot, crumbly white goat cheese sticking to chunks of lovely green avocado, against the maroon-tinged dark green leaves of lettuce, all sticky with ribbons of glistening dressing.  Oh, the crunch from the carrots and lettuce which contrasts with the chew of the wrap and the creaminess of the cheese and avocado.  Sometimes, if there isn't enough crunch, I add a potato chip midway; otherwise, I alternate wrap, chips, and tea.  The scent is green with the tang of the vinegar; otherwise, I can't really smell the wrap or the cheese or the cranberries.  In fact, there isn't much scent to any of it, neither the tea or chips.  Not one of my more fragrant meals.  And yep, I chewed it all patiently, another technique (though, I bet it wasn't 25-30 chews a bite).

Remembering one of the practices, I thought of where everything came from (that one"s mentioned in the article but not listed at the end).  Potato chips--easy, potatoes from Idaho and the like, this brand marketed from MA.  The iced tea is based there too, though no doubt the tea, even if it probably isn't much more than dust, is from far away India or China with the lemons probably from one of the citrus states.  Carrots and lettuce, in season in the spring, probably from some industrialized farm, packaged and delivered to, I'm guessing, the commissary of the deli (the family owns more than one and this one is too small for much prep work), where they are washed and the lettuce is torn.  I don't know if a machine or a person julienned the carrots.  Probably the former.  Cranberries, in season in bogs in the fall, but once dried and sweetened available all year; probably not name-brand Craisins, as they aren't quite as dehydrated, but are rounder and larger.  The goat cheese probably came from a large supplier, arriving in big plastic containers.  They make the vinaigrette by hand.

Avocados.  I was stumped by avocados.  I know they are native to Mexico.  But do they grow on bushes or trees?  When are they actually in season?  I know they are picked and transported all over, where they are eventually skinned and pitted, with the delicate green flesh turning brown in the air once cut.  They are creamy, wonderful with a little salt, perfect as guacamole on corn chips, wonderful in a salad.  My friend Miss Bead likes them on bagels.  I don't think they are often cooked.  They are a "good" monosaturated fat and are now used to add creaminess to vegan offerings like chocolate pudding.  I contemplated this lacuna and have since Googled them (they are a tree, with a summer season, though the fruit ripens after it is off the tree).

I don't often like the last bites of my wrap, which collects a disproportionate amount of dressing and has too much folded over wrap and not enough stuffing.  I usually don't finish it.  A few more chips and a last cleansing sip of tea.  Having gone so slowly and deliberately today, I didn't even eat half of the chips, which I'll give to Sis as they are her favorite.  I always have about half a bottle of tea left to enjoy later. The whole lunch took me about 15 minutes, though it felt longer.  But for a change, I noticed it all. And liked it more than I even usually do (I had wondered if, with such concentration, I wouldn't like it as much.) And I also noticed the light streaming in the windows and the silence punctured by my crunching.

I'll do it again, perhaps as the article suggests, making a weekly, or even daily, mindful lunch date with myself.

Bon appetit!

-=-=-=-=-
* Potato chips.

A Time to Pray

I'm taking a course on prayer offered by the Church of the Larger Fellowship (CLF), the UU online congregation.   I had been exploring prayer as a spiritual practice and am enjoying new practices and approaches suggested in the course, as well as the ideas of my classmates.   


We've had two lively discussions in our class forum, one on the meaning of prayer for each of us and one on conflicts regarding prayer requests, both of which end up centering on who hears prayers and why we pray.  Being UUs, few of us have traditional concepts of a deity as omnipresent, omnipotent, and omnibenevolent; in other words, we don't think a) there is anyone, i.e. an intercessory, who hears our prayers and b) that prayers have a direct, predictable, or controllable outcome.


I wrote, as an introduction:


I am very new to prayer. Raised an atheist (in Texas!), I've been a UU for about 8 years in my local brick and mortar congregation in Connecticut, where we observe silence and rarely address the "spirit of Life and Light." Of course, I saw prayer as a child at football games (always "In Jesus's name we pray") and such, but never prayed or understood prayer (or the theology behind it), especially because I don't really believe in a personal, responsive divinity. However, struggling through my own recent health challenges and watching friends and family also deal with challenges, and having also started down a Buddhist path of meditation (which is almost the opposite of prayer--the emptying of the mind of thoughts instead of the focusing of it--I'm still contemplating this), I find myself wanting to acknowledge, to reach out, to address, to thank something . . . else. I read Simply Pray by Erik Walker Wikstrom, which I found a great introduction for a neophyte like myself, especially as he addresses prayer for those who don't believe in a traditional prayer-answering God but instead use it to be mindful, grateful, etc. And so I was thrilled to see this CLF class. . . . 


This paragraph, from the beginning of Wikstrom's book, solidified for me not only what I was hoping to do, i.e. connect with something sacred, but also how, by just doing it, and encouraged me to overcome the obstacle of having nothing to pray to:

"If you long to connect with the Sacred, if you desire to live a life that is more in touch with the Holy, stop listening. If you have given up on an anthropomorphic deity--the old white guy with the long white beard, or any of his stand-ins--yet can't figure out what to put in its place, stop looking for something and start simply looking around you. Notice those places in your life where you have felt yourself in the presence of the Holy, remember those experiences in which you have heard your connectedness; seek in your own life--your own feelings, your own moments--those places where you have encountered, or are encountering, the Sacred. In other words, simply pray. Pray without any preconceived notion of what you're doing or why. Simply do it, and see what happens."

Before I considered prayer an option for me, when people would ask me to pray for them or their loved ones, I would say yes, but wouldn't use the word prayer (likely "I'll keep you in my thoughts"). But instead of explaining to them that I didn't believe in an intercessory divinity or even in the power of prayer the way it is often commonly understand (as in having an effect on that divinity), I translated their prayer requests into my own spiritual practice, which was, for the most part, to think of them, keep them in my thoughts, wish them the best, remember them in their time of need, light a candle during "Candles of Community" at my brick & mortar church, etc. It was never a good time to discuss theology, especially because the phrase "pray for me" is used colloquially, almost secularly, by believers of all stripes. 

Now, while I still do the same things, I consider it prayer, no qualms about thinking it so. What has changed? Me. I'm not as literal in my approach to spiritual language anymore (though I recognize that some might be appalled at my definitions!); UUism has opened me up to experiences, to terms I rejected out of hand before (I guess I was something of a fundamentalist atheist!). Do I believe my prayer goes to a higher power? No, but they often do. And I do it for them. Focusing my mind in a statement of intention of hope or love or peace, call it a prayer, is for me more about the recognition and acknowledgment of my fellow human being than of a divinity. And I am grateful when they do the same for me, not because a deity has thought of me, but because a friend has.




This week has focused on labyrinths (not to be confused with Labyrinthe, the Jim Henson/David Bowie movie Mama and I watched yesterday when she wasn't feeling well) and on dialogue prayers (i.e. talking to the divine, however we conceive it).  I've explored labyrinths before (here and here) but never so consciously as a prayer--we are supposed to think of a prayer/thought/idea and then trace our finger around a paper labyrinth while concentrating.  I can't wait to see what the next three weeks hold. 

How I Can Be Sick

I've just finished the most inspiring book, How to Be Sick, by Toni Bernhard.  It's a Buddhist-inspired exploration of chronic illness and pain with exercises in mindfulness to help cope and adapt, based on the author's own life, which was inexorably altered by a virus ten years ago.  I finished it in less than a day and will probably re-read it again this week.

It is powerful.  It is true.  It is useful.  I found myself agreeing, "Yes, that's how it is," or planning, "That will totally work for me," on every page, as Bernhard recounts her own struggles with isolation, longing for health, frustrations with limitations, and sadness about loss, and then explains the various techniques she employs to still her mind as she embraces compassion, equanimity, and loving kindness for herself and others.  Some of my favorites:

• Drop-it Practice:  Summon a thought of the past that troubles you ("I wish I'd been able to go on that trip") and then drop it, focusing instead on something present, preferably sensory.  Do the same with a negative or troublesome thought of the future ("What if I don't feel better for Christmas?")
• Byron Katie's Inquiry Practice which ends with a "turnaround":  take a thought that troubles you and turn it into its opposite and contemplate ways that it is true, such as "I hate being in pain" becomes "I don't hate being in pain because there is less pressure to do what I don't want to do" (just a  random example).  
• Four Sublime States Practice:  apply the four sublime states (karuna, metta, upekkha, and mudita, or compassion, equanimity, loving kindness, and sympathetic joy) to your troubles to slow or stop the wheel of suffering (dukkha).  My favorite is metta, or equanimity, or this is my life, not good, not bad, just as it is.  
• Weather Practice:  recognize that life, and your emotions and thoughts, are like the weather, unpredictable and variable and impermanent.  You can rage like a thunderstorm and then smile like the sun.
• Labeling Practice (my name for it):  state objectively what is happening when you are upset or troubled.  For instance, if I stand outside and fret about not being able to tumble in the leaves with the kids, I would say, "Woman, outside in the yard" and go from there,  having grounded myself in the present.

I thought it was interesting that Bernhard has been mostly unable to meditate, having had a dedicated twice-a-day practice, because I too have found it hard to meditate and have been disappointed with myself.  Now I realize there are these other practices I can turn my mind to fully.  I also appreciated how, while touching on the pain, disappointment, loss, etc of her experiences, she did not dwell overly much, didn't relive the pain minute-by-minute.  She wrote about this regarding right speech, which is supposed to be true, kind, and helpful; at some point in her journey, she realized that regaling everyone with every symptom and update was neither kind nor helpful, and so practiced engaging and conversing with others on other topics.  I'm trying to practice this too (but not here).  In fact, "practice" is the operative word in her book, as she notes that she has to practice and does not expect to be perfect, embracing and forgiving times when she is overwhelmed, showing compassion to herself.  Such is the path of those struggling with chronic illness and pain. Not only did I find a sympathetic companion on this path but also learned more about Buddhism (she follows Theravadin Buddhism, but touches on Zen; I'm still so new that I haven't chosen a particularly Buddhist path) and about future resources, such as Byron Katie, the haiki of Issa (my favorite that she includes:  "don't worry spiders/I keep house/casually"), Sharon Salzberg's Lovingkindness, Sylvia Boorstein's Happiness is an Inside Job, Charlotte Joko Beck's Everyday Zen, Thich Nhat Hanh's Miracle of Mindfulness and biography of Buddha Old Path White Clouds, among others. Best of all, I'm looking forward to reading her posts at her blog, Turning Straw into Gold.

Breathe In, Breathe Out

With so much sadness, illness, and the like, I've been meditating, praying, breathing in and out, for friends and loved ones, even though I know that the circle of suffering and sunshine will always spin . . . .

• my aunt, in the hospital, and her immediate and extended family;
• my friend, whose father is suffering, and by extension the whole family (and she's been sick too);
• my friend, Miss M, who was just diagnosed with cancer, again;
• my friend, another Miss M, whose son is still in the hospital after a fall three weeks ago;
• my MIL, whose knee is bothering her greatly;
• my neighbor, who is going through a bitter divorce that just keeps getting uglier;
• the woman who cleans my house, who was robbed of all her electronics and jewellery.

How To Cook Your Life

I just watched a remarkable documentary, How to Cook Your Life, about Buddhist priest and cookbook author Edward Espe Brown (the title comes from Kosho Uchiyama Roshi's updated treatise Instructions for the Zen Cook by the 13th-century monk Eihei Dogen). I've written on Brown before, with regards to mindful baking, because his Tassajara cookbooks have been very influential. So, I was really interested to see the film.

And it was worth it. But in case you don't have Netflix, and also so I can reflect on what I saw, I wanted to share with you the bits that stuck with me most.

The Tenzo Kyokun

The film followed Brown into several kitchens, introducing us to the ritual of the Zen kitchen. There are chants from Dogen's treatise, Tenzo Kyokun, a reading of what seemed like gentle rules or "forms" of the kitchen, offerings to the Buddha, and "functional silence" so that everyone can work mindfully. Advises Dogen,

When washing rice, preparing vegetables, and so on, do so with your own hands, with close attention, vigorous exertion, and a sincere mind. Do not indulge in a single moment of carelessness or laziness. Do not allow attentiveness to one thing result in overlooking another. Do not yield a single drop in the ocean of merit; even a mountain of good karma can be augmented by a single particle of dust.

Attention is paid to everything, for Dogen suggests, and Brown repeats, "Having received [vegetables and rice] protect and be frugal with them, as if they were your own eyes." This reminds me of my in-laws adage about respecting and eating food because "each grain of rice is three drops of sweat on the farmer's back." Numerous shots in the film show Americans gorging on huge amounts of food, wasting much of it; people who live off dumpster-diving and urban foraging are interviewed about the waste in our culture.

Also appearing in the film are several cooks, both students in Brown's cooking classes and the staff of the Zen kitchen (I think it's the San Francisco Zen Center). The various cooks who speak talk about the give and take in Zen cooking, how they cook the food and the food cooks them. Says Brown, "When you're cooking, you're not just cooking. You're not just working on food. You're also working on yourself, you're working on other people." I might add, you're working for other people.

Walking Meditation

I've read about walking meditations but never seen one in action. It's so slow, so much slower than I could walk and balance at the same time these days. Brown, in one of his dharma talks, explained the technique: Lift. Step. Place. Sounds straightforward, but as he notes, a thought will come into your head. And it will be persistent. Just note, "thinking," like you would "lift, step, place," and go back to your walking. With my walking 10 minutes four times a day, I should try this meditation, again, but perhaps not as slowly. I imagine I can maybe keep up a pace like "step, step, step." My usual meditation practice, albeit in bed, of counting breaths, continues.

Big Mind, Kind Mind, Joyful Mind

In the Zen kitchen in the film are displayed the words "Grande Parental Mind," "Big Mind," and "Joyful Mind." The first Brown also describes as "kind mind." These ideas come from Suzuki Roshi, from whom Brown received the dharma, and they are guiding principles in this Zen kitchen. It rather reminded me of Like Water for Chocolate, the idea that the cook's feelings were transmitted through the food to the recipients. I can see how this would easily translate to the 5 o'clock dinner rush. If I keep a joyful mind, I don't get upset that recipes aren't working out or that I feel rushed--and I won't grump at the kids as they come into the kitchen. Instead, I can be happy that I'm preparing healthy, tasty food for my family to enjoy together, maybe even get them to help. Kind mind, which Brown compared to being like the kindness of grandparents to children, has to do, I think, with making right choices at the store and using ingredients that are kind, instead of rushing boxed mac and cheese or frozen nuggets on the table. But also creating a warm environment, making foods that they want to try, laughing and sharing. And the big mind keeps it all in perspective, as I stay mindful of the goal not only of my specific meal prep but the gift of food and togetherness, which we can recall with our candle-lighting blessing ritual. And if I can manage all that, dinner time will not only be food for the body but food for the soul.

The Teapot

I liked Brown's discussion of a beat-up old metal teapot, which seemed to touch him deeply. Examining its flaws, Brown drew a long metaphor to our lives. We get beat up with age, but we are still useful and willing to do our work. But our dents show our experience. Brown notes that sincerity is showing imperfections, instead of covering them up. It reminded me of the Japanese tea ceremony and the imperfect tea bowls, which exhibit the aesthetic of Wabi-Sabi, or imperfection, asymmetry, and the like, which are to remind the tea participants of nature and life.

The Biscuit

I love making biscuits, sourdough ones, with my starter. And so I was interested to hear of Brown's early troubles with biscuits: they weren't right. So he tried everything--butter, shortening, eggs, no eggs, different milk. Still not right. But what was his standard? He realized it was the Pillsbury biscuits of his youth. And so, he decided he needed to taste his biscuits, "the biscuits of today." And he realized they were delicious. We need to quit comparing ourselves, our lives, our creations to some impossible, artificial, unachievable, marketed standard. And homemade biscuits are wonderful.

The Duck in the Ocean

I will end this post in much the same way the film ends, with a poem Brown reads, from his mother's last letter before her death when he was only three. It's not about cooking, specifically, it's about everything:

"The Little Duck"

Now we are ready to look at something pretty special.

It is a duck riding the ocean a hundred feet beyond the surf,

And he cuddles in the swells.

There is a big heaving in the Atlantic.

And he is part of it.

He can rest while the Atlantic heaves, because he rests in the Atlantic.

Probably he doesn't now how large the ocean is.

And neither do you.

But he realizes it.

And what does he do, I ask you?

He sits down in it.

He reposes in the immediate as if it were infinity -- which it is.

That is religion, and the duck has it.

I like the little duck.

He doesn't know much.

But he has religion.

--Donald C. Babcock, New Yorker, 1947

Amen

Do you pray? Or send good thoughts or vibes or wishes? What do you pray for? What do you think prayer does? Who hears? Does anyone need to hear you or is it only about your own consciousness or something in between like good energy out into the world? How does it work? Does it have power?

As a "recovering atheist," I am mystified by prayer. In fact, for decades I never prayed, believing that prayers could only be addressed to an identifiable God, in whom I did not believe. But, through meditation, I have become more aware of prayer, more comfortable with it, less rigid in my definition (though, as I understand it, some people say that meditation is not prayer. For me, now, it is). And I'm embracing the mystery. And so I've been reading and synthesizing . . . . my sources were rather haphazardly discovered, not researched in a methodical way (this is in no way a complete bibliography on the analysis of prayer), but perhaps more meaningful because I came across them in that synergy that happens when you are thinking on something.

What is a Prayer?

Rick Hamlin recently asked on HuffPost, "Do you need to believe in God to pray?" Without giving an answer as to how or why or if prayer works, he believes that by "holding a good thought" the universe answers. Even St. Paul, quotes Hamlin, in his letters to the Philippians, said, "Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things." Odd to think of Paul teaching agnostics to pray . . . .

As part of his discussion on "Why 'Do You Believe in God' is the Wrong Question to Ask," (yes, I do read a lot about religion on HuffPost), Rabbi Mitelman says a more meaningful question would be asking about when you are most connected to others. He refers to Jewish theologian Martin Buber, who "taught that the most spiritual moments occur when we are truly in relationship with others . . . . our most powerful and most memorable moments occur when we truly feel "there" with and for another person." Might that also be a prayer? Or the connection created by telling someone, or being told, that you will pray for them?

Some Practices

I have been overwhelmed by emotion in reading about and contemplating the catastrophe in Japan. It seems like the Indian Ocean tsunami, Hurricane Katrina, and the Haitian earthquake somehow rolled into one. I haven't even read too much about it, fearing the kids would see the images on the computer. But I did tell them about it, since I knew they would eventually hear. They took it in stride, as young children with little grasp of death or suffering would.

And so yesterday I sat down to make paper cranes, needing something creative, active, positive. The kids helped me fold and crease. Mama provided key technical support because I had actually never made an origami crane before (I've done lots of much simpler swans, but that was 8+ years ago when we did origami at one of my museums). In fact, if you look at the previous picture, you can see how we vastly improved from red to purple. But in folding the cranes, we spoke of what we knew about Japan--sushi, ninjas, origami--and talked about sending them prayers right now. I finished stringing them together and we all hung them up outside on our enclosed porch, where they will greet everyone who visits.

I also found another practice at Shambhala Sun, a meditation called tonglen. I hadn't done it before but found the focused concentration on not only the sadness and fear but also hope and compassion to be cathartic and cleansing. I can see now why people can become emotional, even cry, during some kinds of meditation. That doesn't happen to me when I count my breaths, my usual practice.

Yesterday, we received an email from Mama's friend who is from Japan. Her mother is okay, but several friends and their families are lost, some irradiated. I know the paper cranes and tonglen were for me, but here are links on how to help the people in Japan.

Meditation Pledge: Walking on Sunshine

I'm supposed to walk 30 minutes everyday. That's my main exercise and only physical therapy right now. I had been doing some of it in the house, out of convenience but also nervousness to be too far from where I could lay down.

But I've been feeling stronger, even sans brace, and it is such a gorgeous day. So, while the kids played outside with Babysitter, who is visiting from college and came by to say hi (so exciting!!), I walked back and forth on the sidewalk beside our house.

It's a glorious spot, shaded by two maples and a dogwood tree, with a straight and flat sidewalk. I can see our house and yard, our neighbors down the street, and cars going down our streets. So, with my R2-D2 in my pocket, I slowly, deliberately, somewhat timidly, began my walk, going back and forth about 50 feet, concentrating on each step, my balance, my posture.

Then I started to notice the light--the still green leaves haloed with bright yellow light, the sidewalk dappled with light and dark spots. I was reminded of a Gothic cathedral, of the light glowing through the stained glass casting prismatic patterns on the marbled floors. I thought of the Cathedral of St John the Divine, the philosopher of light Abbot Suger of Saint-Denis, even Pillars of the Earth.

My spiritual path only leads through Gothic cathedrals aesthetically; instead, I realized I was practicing a Buddhist walking meditation: going back and forth over a short distance, concentrating on my body's movement, clearing my mind to focus on the present.

Mind, body, soul. The boundaries of the traditional Western duality (trinity, I guess) broken down in one short walk. And it feels so good.

And it's good for me, too.

Healing in more ways than one . . . .

The Power of Meditation

Two days before I injured my back I had made a new pledge to meditate everyday. I haven't forgotten that pledge; indeed, it's what's gotten me through the last 4 weeks.

First, I find it both nearly impossible and entirely necessary to meditate through pain. When the spasms were at their worst, I would just breathe, recognizing my in and out breaths, unable even to count. When I did try to count, a spasm would hit and I'd just forget where I was and have to start over. But trying to count and to breathe was essential--it allowed me to recognize and be in the pain, instead of trying to ignore it. In other words, I'd be thinking, "whoa, that spasm really hurt. But I'm meditating here. So back to breathing." It kept me from getting scared--why did it hurt? when was it going to stop? how could I make it stop? will it ever stop? Sure sometimes, I had to keep telling myself to count with every breath. Pain is very diverting sometimes. But meditating seemed to make it less so. Especially after 4 weeks of practicing. Especially because I was practicing several times a day, through and then outside of the pain. There is a parable by the Buddha, mentioned in an article on pain and meditation in this month's BuddhaDharma magazine, about the two arrows: the first arrow is the sensation of pain but the second arrow is the fear, anxiety--the suffering--of pain. If you are mindful, you only need feel that first arrow. And apparently now, scientific studies of Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction (MBSR, that book I'm reading called Full Catastrophe Living by Jon Kabat-Zinn) which focuses on mindful meditation, particularly a scan of the body, has proven that meditation can actually decrease the pain of that first arrow. In fact, it happened to me today. In the second that I sit before I lie down, I must have compacted that herniated disc and felt a surge of sharp pain very very briefly. So I lay down, acknowledged what I had felt, and then did some breathing. And I realized later that the ensuing "aftershocks," while uncomfortable, were not actually painful. And that even while that first "arrow" hurt, I didn't actually mind.

Second, I've learned that the "how-tos" of meditation aren't that important to me right now. If I'm focusing on the moment, being mindful, I'm meditating. I've let go of all the "shoulds." I'm not meditating sitting up, obviously. I'm not even meditating with my eyes open, especially when I hurt. And yes, sometimes I even meditate myself right to sleep. I am not meditating so my pain will lessen, so I can take fewer drugs, so I'll be relaxed, I'm meditating because I like to meditate. I need to meditate.

One of the most inspiring meditation practices this month was on the couch a few days ago. I was counting my breaths and the sun burst through the clouds through my living room window onto the couch where I lay. Now, up to that point, I hadn't really been in the sun, for weeks. And the warm on my face felt so good. And the light behind my closed eyes was so yellow and beautiful and comforting. And I lay there feeling and seeing and embracing that light. And also hearing the birds, feeling the wind through the window, noticing the cars on the main road and a few neighbors walking by. And I was breathing and counting. And being. I think I understood, in that instance, the power of light.

And of meditation.

Sitting Down: Meditation Pledge, Day 3

I'm waking up at 6:30 to meditate. Without my alarm clock. Coincidence? Some kind of subconscious need? Yesterday, I sat in my desk chair, not wanting to stray to far from the bedroom because the creaky upstairs floors will wake the kids who look for any sound in the morning to announce morning. But, even though I counted my breaths, I spent the whole time thinking how tight my back was without a pillow. Still, I made about 8 minutes before I stopped, without clock-watching (or Droid-watching, in this case. See how useful that phone is?). Today, I realized I forgot my pillow to make the chair palatable and so I assumed the back neutral position my PT likes, in bed, and meditated there. Judgement time: I know I'm not supposed to meditate lying down in bed, but until I get a comfortable position between my lumbar and thoracic and now cervical spine constantly arguing with each other, all things are possible. And for today it worked. Tomorrow, we're hoping to free my glider--yep, those pregnancy chairs can have a second life!--and I can use that. Lots of support.

Speaking of support, I felt this amazing, glowing enveloping of support from Karen Maezen Miller, the Zen priest and author whom I've referenced here numerous times, who linked to my first meditation pledge post on her own blog. I first noticed it when I had a comment from someone I didn't know, which almost never happens. Then another and another. Four altogether. People who don't know me who came here from her and were supportive of and inspired by my efforts, which in turn inspired and humbled me. By then, I'd read her post and caught the link. It was quite a warm, fuzzy feeling all day. And I am grateful.

While I think it's too early to evaluate this practice, I am having a pretty good few days. Coincidence? I'm not sure it matters.