Pathscrossing

Learning About Myself, Again

Quite awhile ago, I read excerpts out of a book called Compassion Fatigue. A section in the book really got me thinking about what I was doing, about how I was helping people who needed support.

“It all started with an advertising campaign. We have all been cued by that famous series of ads by Save the Children. You can help this child or you can turn the page. The first time a reader sees the advertisement he is arrested by guilt. He may come close to actually sending money to the organization. The second time the reader sees the ad he may linger over the photograph, read the short paragraphs of copy and only then turn the page. The third time the reader sees the ad he typically turns the page without hesitation. The fourth time the reader sees the ad he may pause again over the photo and text, not to wallow in gilt, but to acknowledge with cynicism how the advertisement is crafted to manipulate readers like him – even if it is in a “good” cause.” (reference: Compassion Fatigue, p. 9)

I didn’t want to be that kind of person. But, ever since I read about it, almost ten years ago, I struggled with my own conscience when I would pass by a person with a cardboard sign saying, “No Home, No Money, No Job, Please Help.” Part of me wanted to empty my wallet, another part of me wondered if they would just use for alcohol or drugs. If I’m driving, I look away, trying not to make eye contact, not wanting to feel their pain and suffering even for a second. If I walk by them, and they ask, I had this canned response of “Sorry,” only to wish seconds later that I had done something.

It’s different today. Now, when I’m driving, and if my Mom is with me, she always begins to get some money out of her wallet to give to the person. Near as I can detect, there isn’t any question in her mind that she should do something. The more I’ve cared for my Mom, the more I see her giving $25 to anyone she gets mail from for cancer, leukemia, the needy, the homeless, the veterans, the list goes on. As I’ve wanted to respect her wishes during her aging, because I never know how much longer I will have the time with her, I’ve never questioned her intentions. So, she gives me the money, I roll down my window, and I hand to the person.

Now when I walk by someone on the sidewalk, I give them what I feel like giving. Sometimes it’s $5, sometimes $20, sometimes all the cash I have in my wallet. My mom’s taught me about this. I also think that my Buddhist practice have helped me, too. I’m trying to practice non-judgment and also self-trust, its a kind of non-thinking When I see someone who needs support, I just respond, I don’t try to judge what is right or wrong, or chase one question after another about what I should do. I yield to the goodness of my impulse, and more importantly, to give my respect to another person, to acknowledge the frailty of trying to support oneself, to offer a small gesture a blessing that their life have more ease, comfort, and happiness.

I still have moments when I wonder if I’m doing enough to help others. Then, I hear the voice, honed through my meditation practice and from the teachings of other Buddhist masters, teachers and practitioners, to gently give my attention to these feelings without judging myself, to be patient and vigilant, to have an open heart and a firm conviction for being compassionate. This is why I am committed to my practices, because there are so many opportunities to support another’s life, I just need to quiet the distractions and trust my deep intuition,” something I learned from Koshin Cain, Abbott of the Puget Sound Zen Center. Every time I am faced with a person who needs support, I learn about myself, again.

Supporting and Being Supported

My mom and I are being interviewed for a documentary on KIRO-TV about caring for one’s parents. It’s a wonderful opportunity for my Mom to share her story, and as it turns out, it’s been good for me to share a bit about it’s working out.

Background. Mom has stage 3 emphysema. She needs oxygen 24/7, hooked up to a portable oxygen tank. No matter where she goes, she always has to carry it, or someone who accompanies her. She’s got emphysema from years and years of smoking, probably almost 50 years. Mom also has rheumatoid arthritis in her hands, so it’s painful for her to open jars, turn doors, or anything that requires her to grasp firmly and turn. The last three years Mom has been shuttling back and forth between our house here in Seattle and my sister’s in Boise, Idaho. Before that, my sister cared for her for about five years. I basically offered to help my sister, as I saw the burden and stress that it was for her and her family. Now, she’ll be spending more time here mostly because I feel that my lifestyle can better support her changing health condition.

Through my interviews for the documentary, I’ve had some important realizations. The first one is about the amount of support that I personally receive. Jan, my partner, has been incredibly supportive.  When Mom first came to live with us, I basically “made” the decision for us. I never really asked him, which I know now that I should have. But, it just accepted it. He never fought me about. He never put his foot down and drew the line in the sand. He went along with the plan, a plan that we both never really knew what it fully meant. Through the months, Jan would take Mom to the dentist, take her shopping when I couldn’t go or wasn’t available, and most importantly, many of our activity choices he supported, even though he knew that it wasn’t something that he preferred. I am so fortunate for his loving support. But, there were more who helped, too.

When I was at my father’s dying bedside in Boise, Idaho a few years ago, my neighbors across the street, Mary and Deb checked on Mom during that week. When I was gone for about two weeks to help my Uncle, my Mom’s brother, move out of his house in Idaho, my friends Kevin and Kole came to stay here and take care of Mom for that entire time. When I was at Shanti-volunteer training, I mentioned my discomfort of being away from my Mom, and many of the participants expressed their compassion by checking with me to know how my Mom was doing. When I had to go on a weekend zen retreat to Santa Fe, my nephew from Vancouver, Washington rode the train up and took care of Mom. My friends ask about my Mom all the time, and some that know me real well, ask me how I’m doing. When I talk about my Mom, they emphasize how they want to know how “I” am doing. I take a deep breadth to get in touch with myself, and I share openly and honestly.

Caring for my Mom is a gift that she gives me. It’s a chance for me to demonstrate my love. The silver lining is that it’s also a chance for others to share their love and support of me. I realize it so clearly. I am so grateful for all that my family and friends do, ask, and give. Their support and understanding has inspired me to be there for them, and for others, too, to be vigilant for moments to “pay it forward.” Through my zazen (sitting meditation), I feel that I am more present to those opportunities, rather than be distracted by all the chatter in my head when I am with somebody. This is why the practice of zazen is important, to be open and responsive to supporting others and also to notice when someone else is supporting me.

What I Found When My Heart Cracked Open

 “Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in.”

For years, I’ve always thought this clip from American Beauty was one of the most beautiful scenes in a movie. It captured me, because it was something I wished that I could feel, to be able to see life, to experience life with my heart overflowing. It’s not something that you can pursue, like deciding to see the Grand Canyon, or waiting for a sunset.

This last weekend, I had the good fortune of attending a retreat on Radical Joy at the Upaya Zen Center located in the beautiful mountains of Santa Fe. My interest in attending this retreat was to meet Joan Halifax Roshi, founder, abbott, teacher, and priest of Upaya and to experience the Center as part of my application process to their Buddhist Chaplaincy program.

The experience of the weekend was shaped by Roshi and Sharon Salzberg, providing a blend of Zen and Theravada Buddhism, respectively. Roshi commented about the common emphasis of Buddhism on suffering, and joy not as common. While I did not come away with a prescriptive notion of “radical joy,” I did feel that something happened, that my eyes, my mind, and my heart were opened.

Maybe it was the presence of Roshi and Suan. Maybe it was the beauty of the zendo. Maybe it was the presence of the other 100 or so individuals who were gathered. Maybe it was the combination of zazen and vipassana meditations.

All I know is that when I heard a movie clip by Brother David Stendl Rast’s, I felt my heart cracked open. All I know is that when Roshi was expressing her appreciation to a handful of residents and participants who were concluding their three week meditation sesshin, I felt my well of gratitude crack open.

All I know is that when the retreat ended, I sat with a woman to share with her my gratitude for the benefactors in my life, and I felt my heart break in to pieces as I felt that there has been so much love around me. I was experiencing that scene from American Beauty. I found the moment, or the moment found me. I felt it.

In that moment, when I felt so much love, I also in almost the same breadth felt it’s source in the final sentence I voiced to the woman I was sitting with. “It’s so overwhelming sometimes because I feel alone, I feel lonely.” I had realized what Roshi, I think, was speaking about, that the extent of our joy to some extent depends on our suffering.  My feelings of loneliness heightened my appreciation and gratitude for the moments that I have been loved. It was a beautiful moment, to experience joy in the retreat, and an equally powerful moment to recognize my own loneliness.

My heart was cracked open. I found joy. Radical? Not sure. But, inside my heart, I found loneliness, too. And, yes, everything else contributed as well, the presence of Roshi and Susan, the beauty of the zendo, the presence of 100 participants, and my experience of both zazen and vipassana meditation practices.

Roshi announced that she and Susan would be offering this retreat again in 2010. While I can’t make any promises about what you will experience, if you feel it pull you, then trust that.

Being Non-Judgmental Begins with Self

Today was my first day of hospice volunteer training with Shanti, Multifaith Works. I found Multifaith through an internet search of local hospice volunteer programs in the Seattle area.

After submitting my application, I was invited to an orientation interview with Robert, Program Director, and Molly, Volunteer Coordinator on September 6. This is my journal entry on September 7:

Yesterday, I had an interview with Multifaith to be a Shanti volunteer, providing end of life care, to deepen my practice as I move towards becoming a Buddhist Chaplain. They spoke of how most situations it is more about individuals who are experiencing loss and grief, about being present to them, without judgment, without asserting my own expectations and needs, without trying to solve or fix anything, but just being emotionally present. I sense that this will teach me, will give me the opportunity to learn to just be present, with love.

Even though it was only the first day, I was quickly awakened to what I had written. You see, through a variety of exercises, I was able to consider what my response would be to a Shanti-partner, an individual who had requested support from Shanti. As I sat through those exercises, I heard myself on a few occasions jump to solution-oriented responses, rather than just simply paraphrase or reflect feelings. I feel like I’m trying to unlearn and relearn new ways of communicating.

After having so many years and years of learning how to fix problems, of having the next idea, or figuring out what to do, I’m now faced with a situation where that is my handicap. It makes me wonder about how much of “that type” of thinking has affected how I look at myself. If I see myself as someone that has something that needs attention, that needs to be fixed, and more importantly, how that has affected how I see others, that they, too, have something to be fixed.

I’ve had moments where I haven’t been so judgmental of myself, being a little kinder, a little gentler, more compassionate. When I’ve felt those moments, it’s also helped me to know what it feels like, making me realize how good it would be for others to feel that way, too. And so now, more often, I feel myself being less judgmental, less critical of others, just accepting things as they are, where there is no good or no bad.

I don’t know why it feels like it’s going to be so difficult in my training, or even anticipating the challenges of it with a Shanti-partner. Maybe it’s because I’m afraid I’ll make a mistake, that I’ll upset someone unknowingly. Funny thing though, it’s that fear of failure that makes me so judgmental of myself, of needing to “do it right.” But, that puts me right back on the treadmill again of needing to make sure that I have the right answers.

I guess the hard part of being non-judgmental is more about how I judge myself, first. For that, I don’t need to rely on hospice volunteer training, I can work on that from right where I’m at. Maybe that’s why I enjoy my zazen “sitting” meditation, because it’s just me, nobody else, just me. Just sitting with myself, when a thought appears, I let it go, without judgment. Now all I need to do is bring that in to my volunteer training, in to my practice exercises to be non-judgmental of my Shanti-parter, and maybe more importantly, myself.

More Spaciousness on the Outside, More on the Inside

Just returned last night from a 12 day trip in Pocatello, Idaho where I was helping to clear generations of stuff in my Uncle’s house so that he could move in to a smaller house or apartment. It’s a house that my Grandfather built. It’s where he and my grandmother, and my Uncle lived for many years. It was time for him to move, a time for letting go of his parent’s belongings, a time for deciding what was most important to keep, and what could be donated.

For me, it was a time to try to be understanding, a time to be of service, and as I learned, a time to learn how to breathe and relax with the time pressure of trying to finish nine large rooms in 12 days, besides working full-time during the week days.

I arrived on a Friday evening and even though I would be staying with a friend during the entire time, I went over to visit with my Uncle to get a sense of how to approach the entire effort. When I walked in, I was immediately overcome with the enormity of the task, of how much stuff there was and of how little space there was to easily move around. After my early morning meditation that Saturday morning, we began. It was a long day, maybe 12 hours, followed by another meditation the next morning, and another ten hours. By the end of the weekend, we had finished off two rooms and had some areas clear enough to organize items coming from the other rooms.

As the next few days followed, I began to feel a anxiousness in my morning meditations, wanting to cut them short, my mind at times distracted by what I needed to get done, with more thoughts and questions about how to finish the entire house, and what to do with everything that he wanted donated. I felt a noticeable difference in my mind-state. And so it continued for the next ten days. On several occasions, my tiredness convinced me to enjoy the bed, rather than my zafu, to sleep rather than to sit awake, to forget my breathing rather than to feel the beat of my heart.

By the end of the 12 days one thing was very obvious to me. When there are time pressures and demands to complete something within a specific time period, our mind takes over, becoming pre-occupied, calculating, adjusting and thinking about everything that needs to get done. All that thinking didn’t really change anything for me. There weren’t any thoughts or breakthrough ideas that helped me to do it better or faster. All they did was pre-occupy me, distract me from embracing and breathing in to the stillness that I was so accustomed to enjoying. Still, it was good to practice letting go of all those need-tos and wantas. It was good to learn to practice returning to my breath, to releasing myself, and to hearing the voice that says “not now, later.”

Maybe more importantly, as day ten arrived, my Uncle said he could feel himself returning to being more whole, and that he was happy. Maybe all those years of accumulated stuff congested his walking around the house, and now, all that space that was opened up in his house also gave him a glimpse into the inner sense of spaciousness and freedom. If we could all just get a taste of that, maybe it would be easier to give things up, to be less attached. Until we wrestle ourselves into letting go, we can never know what is on the other side, of what it feels to be uncumbered, of how spaciousness on the outside expands our feeling of spaciousness on the inside, and how that expansive emptiness within gives us the capacity to be available to so much more in our lives.

Mindfulness Costs $124

Every month, my Mom gets a B12 shot. This month, she also got a flu shot, both in the same arm. Whoa! Not me, thank you. The doctor’s office is located in downtown Seattle, right on the corner of 4^th and Madison, across from the relatively new city library. Like any high rise office building, there is parking. In fact, on most occasions, we are always fortunate to get a handicapped parking stall.

As we returned to the car, we began talking about family matters. I paid the $11 parking fee, pulled out on to Madison, heading west, still talking. I took a right turn on to 3^rd Avenue, knowing that I was going to another shopping destination. While driving on 3^rd, Mom and I continued to talk about our family concerns and issues. I got to the end of the block, and traffic was backed up turning right on to Seneca heading east. I patiently waited, and we continued to vent about family matters that we couldn’t change. Traffic eased up, and I was able to continue on 3^rd Avenue. Then, suddenly there were police lights blinking behind me.

I pulled over without any idea of why. The car was registered this summer, so it can’t be my registration. I was stuck behind some cars, so it wasn’t speeding. I drove through a green light, that wasn’t turning yellow.

I rolled down the window with people waiting for the bus looking at me. I rolled down my window, glanced in my rear view window to see if the officer was coming. He approached my open window and proceeded to tell me that the street was closed at 3:00 pm for bus traffic only.

Of course! I knew that. Every other time that I had taken Mom to the doctor’s office for a visit or just her shots, I always turned turn on Seneca, I never kept going straight on 3^rd. But, on every other occasion, I wasn’t pre-occupied in a conversation about very emotionally sensitive matters. I was mindlessly driving, not really paying attention. Oh sure, I didn’t get in an accident, but if I was being mindful of just driving, I would have noticed the sign, again, like I had every other time. But, this time, I was caught up in something else.

Since I’ve practicing zen meditation, I recognize these mindless moments much more often. When just for a second, your mind drafts, unintended actions happen. The hot water that I’m pouring in to a decanter misses because I’m thinking about what I need to do later that morning, instead of just pouring, pouring, pouring.  The garbage bag that I’m trying to place in a bin misses and most of the garbage spills on to the floor as I think about whether today is yard waste recycling or paper recycling, instead of just placing, placing, placing. And, on this day, my driving is distracted by my emotions and my conversation, instead of just driving, driving, driving.

Today, I finally read the back of the ticket about what I should do. Since I knew I was guilty, I looked on the front of the ticket for the amount of the check I was going to write. $124. One hundred and twenty four dollars. Today, that’s how much it cost me to be mindful. $124. Next time, it may not cost me anything, or next time it could be much, much worse. One thing at a time. I’ve been trying. I quit driving and listening to music. I just drive, driving, driving, driving. I quit reading and eating lunch or dinner. I just eat, eating, eating, eating. I quit reading and drinking tea at the same time. I just read, reading, reading, reading.

For me, sometimes my mindlessness motivates my mindfulness.

Escaping Busyness

The other day I was at Barnes and Noble. A friend was visiting for the weekend, and there was a book that he was curious to find. Bookstores are dangerous for me. It’s like a candy story. I wander around, see a title, pull it out, read the back cover, and then somehow it becomes part of me as I slip it under my arm, knowing that I will take it home. This day was no exception.

I wandered over to the Eastern Religion section where I hoped to find books on Buddhism. I didn’t have anything in mind. I was just curious to see what was there. Scanning the titles, I found one. Again, no surprise. I mean can anyone really walk in to a bookstore and not find anything? The title this time? “Contemplative Science.”  On and off over the last year, I’ve been reading about the brain and zen meditation. It’s a curiosity, underlying a sense that there is something important that I could understand so that when others inquire about zen, I have some scientific substance to offer. After all, my experience is that most people require more than just one person’s experience, data helps. It’s not as emotionally convincing, but it makes it more plausible, somehow more reliable and believable.

As usual, I returned home with the book, put it among the other books that I was reading, “In the Buddha’s Words,” “The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying,” and “The Tibetan Book of the Dead.” I like to travel from one book’s chapter to another. It’s like weaving, where ideas from one book somehow become interrelated to another, connecting ideas like the author’s are talking to each other.

As I began reading Contemplative Science, suddenly I got this idea that I could pursue a Ph.D. in Contemplative Science, and I could teach this. I had read about colleges and universities that were offering courses in contemplative studies. No sooner had I thought that when another thought came charging in. “Wait! Here you go again, off on another tangent. Curious? Sure. But, do you have to get a degree? And, wasn’t I already planning to pursue a program as a Buddhist chaplain? So, why do this? Isn’t that what you wanted to do? Why do you need to do one more thing?”

Yes, yes, I replied. It was one more thing. It really wasn’t something that I felt in my heart. It was just another excursion of busyness, to occupy my mind, to have me feel like I accomplished yet another thing. But, providing end of life care is what I really feel in my heart. Being with individuals at the end of their life was where I could be more intentional about my spiritual practice, more deeply, than teaching in a classroom. Those who are interested in the contemplative sciences will find their own path to satisfy their curiosity, just as I. And likewise, even those who are transitioning from this life to the next will also find their own path, it’s just that I am choosing to be there with them, for them, for their family, and most importantly, for me. Whew! I escaped busyness.

A Stronger Commitment

Last Wednesday I returned to the Puget Sound Zen Center on Vashon Island for meditation. I hadn’t been since I attended last fall before my first weekend meditation retreat with them, going to Prague for three months earlier this year, returning back to work, taking care of Mom who is living with us again, and giving attention to what arose day-to-day. It was wonderful to be there again. The familiarity, yet also some newness.

When the meditation had completed, I noticed the time on the thermostat. Immediately, I thought, if I leave right away, maybe I could make the 9 p.m. ferry to return to Seattle. Slipping on my jacket and in to my sandals, I disappeared in to the night using my remote key to help me locate my car. As I approached the ferry terminal entrance for cars, I realized that I wasn’t going to make the 9 pm ferry. Not knowing for sure if the next one was at 9:30 or 10, I continued, got in line and waited. 9:20. Another ferry arrived and left without any of us in line boarding. 9:35. Again a ferry arrived and a flashing light in front of me indicated that we would be boarding.

It was about 10:30 when I arrived home. Immediately I went to check on Mom to see if everything was okay, and if there was anything she needed. I was greeted by, “I couldn’t eat the pasta. It wasn’t soft enough. No one seems to understand that I have a hard time swallowing.” I reacted very strongly. Before I left for meditation, I had gone to the special effort of making her home-made macaroni and cheese. She was used to eating the macaroni and cheese frozen dinner and I thought this would be more enjoyable. Again, I was met with dislike, no appreciation whatsoever. I was disappointed. I was upset. I felt useless. I felt unappreciated. Why did I go to so much effort? Why doesn’t she just cook for herself? On and on, I went. I walked out to the kitchen, grabbed the container that looked completely untouched, put it back in the refrigerator, walked in to her room and firmly said that I was going to bed. That was that.

I walked away from her room and was immediately struck by another thought. “Wait! Didn’t I just get back from a meditation? Why was I reacting suddenly with such strong emotions? Was there a more compassionate response?” Probably. But, at the moment, my emotions were running so high that I couldn’t find a new perspective. “Was she hungry?” I don’t know. I just wanted this feeling to go away. I brushed my teeth, set my alarm, turned off the lights and went to bed.

Going to meditation doesn’t give me a silver bullet to handle and cope with life’s situations. That’s why meditation is called a practice. It doesn’t fix things for me. It doesn’t make them not happen. It asks me to keep returning again and again, until I am able to respond without ego, without judgment, without defensiveness, and with understanding and compassion. Moments like these strengthen my commitment to my practice, because I know there is another way of being that is more peaceful and loving.

An Unexpected Reminder

This summer I frequently sat zazen (zen upright meditation) out on the back porch in the early morning. In the quiet of the sunrise, I would just sit there on my portable, inflatable black cushion. Some mornings, I would wear a dark blue flannel blanket around my shoulders. As I sat there, it was often very quiet, except for the rustling of the nearby wisteria leaves, the sounds of tires, and morning greetings of several different types of birds. On a few occasions, I remember being startled by some noise on the roof, followed by sounds in the branches of the wisteria. When it happened, the muscles in my shoulders would twitch, and a shot of fear would rush up from my stomach. After realizing that it was a squirrel, my breath would return, and my attention back to the knot in the wood in front of me, and I would continue.

Then, a few weeks ago as I was walking around the back of the car, to go towards the driver’s side door, I saw there in the middle of the road, the remains of a squirrel that had been hit. In fact, it seemed that it was hit so hard and so completely that what remained was left flat like a photo, like the squirrel was looking out from the pavement, literally. My heart sank. Was this the squirrel that had visited me occasionally this morning? I know that their spirit is gone, that this is only their body, yet a feeling inside of me was triggered. Just the squirrel’s mere presence on a few occasions became part of my life. I have only sat outside twice since witnessing the squirrel’s remains there on the road. I have not had the pleasure of another squirrel’s company since. I am only left with this small emptiness inside of me, and the memory of the brief moments that we had come to know each other. It was an unexpected reminder about Buddhist principle of impermanence and the ever present nature of living and dying.

It's Enough

My partner Jan is a professional photographer. Before this he was a university professor, then a diplomat for the Czech Embassy. He gave up his career as a diplomat in order to have a green card that he won through the lottery so we could be together. As I returned to working for Boeing, he had the time to pursue his passion for photography. He never had any formal training in photography, even though he took a couple of classes at a local studio. Everything he learned through the simple process of taking pictures. Today, many would consider him accomplished. In fact, he is just getting ready to teach a course in photography at Eastern and Central European Studies, a part of the Faculty of Philosophy and Arts at Charles University.

I share this because it points to a situation where you don’t always have to have credentials, certificates, or degrees to do what you love.  Most of the time, it’s easy to default to the belief that in order to be a writer, you have to have a degree in writing, or at the least have taken some kind of class in writing.

As I begin to pursue my interests in providing end of life care, I too, realized that I don’t have to wait for some formal certificate.  So, I did some research on the internet to do volunteer hospice care, filled out an application with Shanti, part of Multifaith Works, was called for an informal interview a few weeks later, and will be attending training on October 18, 19 and 25, 26. It feels great to know that I don’t have to wait months and months, or longer, just to act on what I feel in my heart, to be with those who will appreciate a little time from me to share, to be heard, and to be hugged. For me, it’s enough just to be a volunteer.

Sometimes, maybe we think that we have to prove ourselves to somebody (or maybe one’s self) before believing that we’re good enough to be the person we sense. See if there is a way for you to be that person right now. You don’t need permission. You don’t have to know everything to begin. Just trust yourself. Take joy in acting from that place in your heart. Have patience. Be happy that you’re doing it. Sure, it may not be as good as you know it could be, but that doesn’t really matter does it? For now, it’s enough just to be doing something. It's enough.