Flower Offering

I potted up 16 pots of sun-friendly perennials for the front of the house today.

Quick, I said to myself, take a picture before any of them die!

Pot-ential

I’m beginning to perk up physically after my surgery seven weeks, and now I can see how much remains to be done around my house to re-establish my home after three years in retreat.  What I should do is assemble furniture, unpack boxes and put away things, and dreary things like that.  But, instead I am starting with flowers.  I found dozens of my own dead or half dead potted plants everywhere in plastic pots.  Plus empty plastic pots.  The plastic pots were faded and trashy looking. 

Funny, how when you pose a question in your mind the answers just appear.  I went to Berkeley Horticultural Nursery—an urban paradise—just for the pleasure of looking around.  As I drove around back I saw that a place had been established to drop off unwanted pots for recycling.  Woo hoo!  I don’t have to put the old black nursery pots in the landfill.  So, yesterday I loaded up the back of the car with the ones I would never use again.

Now, what to do with the trashy faded adobe colored plastic pots?   I just can’t lift full pottery pots anymore.  These plastic ones are theoretically useful—but what an eyesore!

Then I stumbled upon some edition of “Ask This Old House” on PBS in the last week and—sure enough—they addressed this issue!  They painted them with spray paints.

So, yesterday I:

1.  Emptied all the usable pottery soil from the bottom of the old pots in a pile on a tarp, and mixed it with fresh pottery soil from a bag.

1.  Put the old dead or unwanted plants in the compost.

2.  Filled a big bucket of water up, and added a little earth friendly dishwashing liquid.

3.  Using a car-washing mitt to wash all the pots.

4.  Did my best to deal with the thousand of ants that quickly swarmed me, my pots, and my hose, with minimal casualties.

5.  Let them dry.  The show recommended wiping the surfaces down with denatured alcohol to get any grease off.  I read the label of Klean-strip Green Denatured Alcohol and decided it looks pretty harmless unless I drink it – which would kill me.  I wiped the pots down with it and it helped take off the remaining price tags and adhesive.

6.  Since the background for these pots will eventually be my pastel colored house, I thought Easter egg colors would be cool and unusual, so I bought the spray paints ahead of time and had them at-the-ready.

7.  While everything was drying I went back to the nursery, dropped off the pots, and bought some plants I thought might be appropriate for a hot October, and might possibly over winter.

8.  Came back and spray-painted those pots until my finger went numb! (Not recommended, I read now that it may be some weeks before sensation comes back.]

Boy they look just too cute, don’t you think?

Surgery in a Buddhist Context

I woke up from surgery surrounded by love.  It was August 15, 2012 and my Tibetan lama -- an elder in his late 70’s -- had gone way out his way to be there throughout my surgery and when I awoke.  Other friends surrounded my bed, some like hallucinations, because I had no idea they would be present that day.

What a different experience it would have been if I were a private person in a long-term relationship with one person, quietly coming to in my hospital bed!  No hurried last minute “likes” on Facebook to the many supportive messages the night before surgery.  No Tibetan holy men rolling their malas (rosaries) with mantras and prayers on my behalf. 

At this specific juncture of my life, I’m accustomed to being married to a community.  For the past three and a half years, ending about June, I was in a cloistered group meditation retreat with a group of people.  We came to know all each other’s strengths and weaknesses, our sensitive areas and hidden heroic qualities.

So, it was not so strange to be waking, drowsy from Morphine, in a group… my snoring (and who knows what all) exposed to the community that held and supported me.

Since then, three people from my retreat have lived with me (at various times) in my half-unpacked house while I recuperate.  They move this heavy MacBook Pro from my bed to the couch and back again at my whim.  They feed the feral cat, wash y dishes, and take out the trash.  Yesterday, two of A.dz.om Rinpoche’s students came by in the morning and walked with me a few blocks, and listened to me rattle on.  Then, later, two of Lama Tharchin Rinpoche’s students came by and did tsog – in important group practice for us – while I mumbled along the best I could in between some pangs of pain.

Normally, I like a lot of alone time to practice.  But in this time of recovery I don’t have the attention span for formal practice, and I appreciate the opposite—distraction.  In the middle of the night, my “attendant” friend asleep, it’s just me and my snarling abdomen in boring dialogue.

Contemplating Rudders and Spiritual Life

The rudder of a sailboat is the part of the craft is a movable part that descends from the rear… the way the captain steers.

I have been contemplating how important my own personal “rudder” is in directing my life.

Several conversations with Buddhist lamas come to mind:

In the early 2000s I made a temporary Tibetan shrine room in the (leaky, as it turns out) garage below my rental apartment in Oakland.  I started inviting lamas there and also leading practice groups for the foundational practices at the instruction of one of my lamas.  While discussing a future teaching there with Lama Yeshe Wango, she encouraged me to wrote a mission statement for the little space—something that non-profit organizations do—which had never occurred to me.  In the process of doing that I greatly clarified my own purpose, focused it and refined it.  This prevented me from going of in many directions at once.  The whole experience of “Dakini Cave” was a very positive one, and I felt completely satisfied when I closed up the space at the end of 2006.

At other times, my three main Tibetan lamas have gently encouraged me to focus on the main point of our lineage teachings, and – in so many words – there is no need to keep researching every practice and every lama. They know I tend to be interested in everything, and also have endless projects put into my mind.

I do have a background in nursing, where we need to be able to clearly articulate our nursing diagnosis, our specific goal, and plan to get there.  I also have been through “strategic planning” meetings with non-profit organizations where they do similarly frame things in terms of an over-all mission statement and a few clear specific objectives about how accomplish them.

That all sounds kind of dorky and dry, but I have an opinion:  it is really useful to sit down and make a mission statement for our life for a specified period of time, such as three or five years.  Then, it is probably good to communicate this to the people in our lives.  I feel this is especially true for us people who are spiritually focused – if not, all the forces of this materialistic society will push us in the direction of trying to create a comfortable and pleasant situation in this life (a never-ending struggle) instead of our own transcendent purposes that go beyond this life.

Take, for example, John: he is a relatively new, but serious, student of Tibetan Buddhism who has a good connection to a wisdom lama of the Great Perfection Teachings.  He might have the mission statement

“The Mission of John Smith is to attain enlightenment in this life, in the bardo, or in the next life. ” So, John might make the following specific objectives:

·      I will follow the practice instructions of my Vajrayana teacher to the best of my ability.

·      I will finish my foundational practices in four years by practicing a minimum of 1.25 hours at least five days a week.

·      Within five years I will start a six month to three year retreat under the direct guidance of a qualified teacher.

·      I will get myself out of debt so I can increase my freedom to practice.

·      I will learn the Tibetan alphabet and some basic Dharma vocabulary.

Contrast this with Emily, who at 23 has taken refuge as a Buddhist, and attends group practices at her local meditation center.  She is married to a Buddhist, loves children and delights in thinking of raising kids with Buddhist values.

She might write:

“The mission of Emily Fairchild is to create a family with her husband Bob and strongly incorporate Buddhist values such as love, compassion, joy and equanimity into our children’s rearing.”

·      I will connect with other Buddhist parents who want make a support group for Buddhist Childrearing.

·      I will put energy into sustaining a positive relationship with Bob, and co-envision how we can incorporate the Dharma in the first few years of life.

·      I will gradually start talking with my parents and sister about what my values are.

·      I will continue to attend my one-hour group practice at the center, at least once a week.

·       I will work extra shifts now to support my family, because I know it will not be possible later.

So, we can see that John and Emily’s goals – while outside of the mainstream -- are very different, and will result in vastly different behaviors.  John, for example, cannot realistically initiate a long-term committed relationship during this five-year period, and also cannot take on responsibility for long-lived animals.  He needs to choose a career, such as tradesman or nurse, which will not be harmed by taking time off to do retreat in the future.  Emily needs close ties to the community of like-minded parents, and to spend her free time either with her husband, to build the young relationship and nest environment, or at work, to save money.

This is the kind of rudder I am talking about.  Without it, all kinds of obstacles to our own goals will sneak in, and before we know it we find ourselves in old age having done little of lasting value.

Do you think this is true?

Meandering My Way Back to Sausal Creek

Oakland International Airport  7-23-12

My hair extends to my mid-back.  It’s frizzy on top, and two-toned.  The top third is white and gray and the bottom two thirds is brown. 

I… Don’t…  Care.

It’s been more than three years since I posted to my blog, and – miraculously – it is still here waiting for me.  As I sit here in the Southwest terminal I reflect – should I still keep a blog?  What purpose does it serve?  Is anything I say just bound to be boring?

The story is this:  I finished a group three year three month retreat in a Tibetan Buddhist tradition about a month ago.  Since then, I have transitioned slowly from spending most of my time helping my teacher with rituals, while packing up my cabin inside the retreat facility, then gradually moving out into the world at large. Now, I have brought my stuff up to my home in Oakland.  I’ve spent time with many friends, in many noisy restaurants. 

On Flight 127 to Dullas International Airport

The long hair is traditional for retreat.  One classically leaves it uncut for the three years.  I think this odd looking mop is supposed to hold blessings from all the meditation and prayer I’ve done over these years.  In my case, there is no way to know… perhaps it is simply the repository of split ends.  On further thought, a common meditation is to visualize oneself as a luminous wisdom divinity emanating countless offering goddesses, who themselves emanate goddesses, etc. and finally make offerings to all the Buddhas and Bodhisattva in infinite world systems.  That seems like split ends to me, does it to you?  Do the ends of split ends themselves split?  Quick, get me a magnifying glass!

The last time I had hair this long was in high school in the 7O’s.  At that time, everyone had long uncut hair, both boys and girls.  Now, in this era where it is a bit unfashionable, especially for middle aged women, most of my co-retreatants – perhaps everyone but me – have already cut it off and made themselves more, well, becoming.  Perhaps they want a lover or a job, or both.  But, that is not my agenda right now.  My fantasies revolve around reviving my house, and having some privacy, autonomy, comfort, and quiet.

Hence, I return to Sausal Creek, the urban oasis.  I have a fantasy of having a backyard island of native perennials on my little part of the “creek,” which in my neighborhood runs through a open culvert.  Before I left, I worked long and hard landscaping some of the backyard by hand, removing almost all of the Algerian Ivy (formerly known as English Ivy), and planting (expensive) native plants.  When I came back and looked, albeit not close up, not much remains of my work.

The marauding Algerian Ivy has gown back worse than before, in three years even growing 15 feet up my native oaks.  Few of my native perennials are obvious.   This is a gentle way of saying they are probably dead. I think they needed to be watered even in the second growing season, just a little.  Humans have unknowingly trampled through my feeble attempt at landscaping.  The native bush anemome that I had hoped would be five feet tall by now, boasting it’s white flowers, is no where to be found.  Metaphorically, my sand mandala has been wiped clean.  As some famous dry wit once said:  “Perennials are plants that, if they had lived, would have gone on to bloom year after year.” 

Perhaps the next sand mandala I create now in companionship with nature will last a little longer.  Perhaps not.  In any event, for now the ground and sky is still mine to enjoy.  Me in my long hair, the hair that appears to the world as that of an alcoholic who is so immersed in drink she no longer thinks or cares about anything else.  But I know a different story.