A Slow Learner

One day my teacher, Venerable Karma Yeshe Wangpo said to me: “You should teach”. I didn’t. Some weeks passed. Again he said: “You should teach”. Still I didn’t. I guess I am a slow learner. For two whole years he kept saying: “You should teach”. I didn’t tell him, but I was terrified. Who was I to teach? I didn’t know enough. I wasn’t good enough. Nobody would come. I’d screw up. These thoughts were my companions for those two years. Then one day as I sat meditating, something shifted. A great and wonderful sadness filled my heart. It’s not about me. I cried. From somewhere deep inside of me I had touched something that was greater than me and yet at the same time was me.
 
Yeshe said once it wasn’t him teaching. I didn’t get it then. I do now. The One, the Universe, God, Creator, or whatever we call it, manifests through all creation, including this body and mind that I label “me”. He said what was important was that I had touched that wisdom place, and it was from there that I would be guided as I undertook the journey to follow this path of compassion.
 
I got up from the meditation cushion. I now knew. What “I” wanted didn’t matter. My insecurities didn’t matter. My fears didn’t matter. What mattered was really very simple. Compassion. Compassion for others. I felt my heart open wide. My heart was big enough to love others, all others, including the fearful, scared me. How could I not teach?
 
I phoned Yeshe and told him. I went over to his apartment and we talked for two hours. He spoke of many things during that time, including that for as long as he was able, he would always be there for me. And what about “me”? Yes, I was still scared. I would make mistakes. But I would be coming from that open-hearted part of myself that we all have inside of us. Somehow I now knew that if I always tried to come from a place of kindness and genuine caring, that whatever manifested would be okay.
 
Near the end of our chat, something curious happened. Suddenly, what looked like a small picture fell off of the wall where he stood; he caught it. He was quiet for a moment. He looked down at the item in his hand, then at me. He smiled, stepped towards me, and handed me the picture. Puzzled, I looked at what I now held. I can’t even begin to describe what I felt at that moment. As I raised my eyes to meet his gaze, he softly said that Tibetans would consider what had just happened auspicious. Even now, as I recall this story, I feel a sense of wonder, and from somewhere deep inside of me a connection to something I find hard to explain: A feeling that I’m not alone. Of process. Of being guided. Of love.
 
What was the picture? What did I see that day, the day on which I finally let go of the “I” and welcomed the “we”? From a carefully crafted needlework the words stood out: For everything there is a season.
 
Now, many years later, I feel fortunate to still be guiding others. Every day I feel grateful to live where I can connect with the beauty of the Dharma, with my teacher, and with other sangha, as they, as we, make the effort to keep alive a tradition of compassion, a path of peace and of love begun so many centuries ago by the Buddha.
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Posted in Buddhism

Love is Forever

     I was meditating this morning. I cried a couple of times. It was a busy meditation session. Lots happening. The happening that ended in tears was my mom. My mom. Sometimes when I look at her wrinkled, beautiful face I want to cradle her in my arms and never let her go. Life is impermanence; I know that. Every person, flower, tree, bird, ant, river, mountain…all of it, ever changing, moment to moment, day to day, year to year, century to century. I just sat there as the sadness took over. Sometimes wrapping my head and heart around her deteriorating mind, around the mother who very slowly, and irrevocably, is disappearing becomes so difficult.
     Dementia. It’s just what is. I know that. At ninety-six she has lived a good life. A happy life. Mom loved life. She didn’t just live it, she engaged with it. I have watched over the last few years all of those engagements disappear. One by one: socializing with friends, playing bridge, enjoying Scrabble, doing puzzles, going for long walks, driving her car, scooting around town on her motorcycle, cycling, camping, synchronized swimming, crafting pottery, and laundry.
     Yes, even laundry. I can’t even begin to count the times that I would arrive for a cup of tea and a chat to encounter her pinning up a blouse or a pair of shorts or a bed-sheet to the clothesline. She’d be all chipper and smiling as she greeted me, clothes gently flapping around her in the breeze. She loved to breathe in that wonderful outdoors smell when she donned a just cleaned blouse, or rested her head on a freshly washed pillowslip as she drifted off to sleep at night. No more.
     It breaks my heart to arrive for a visit mid afternoon to be greeted by her, still pajama clad, hair disheveled, just sitting, doing nothing, on her living room couch. No more will I sit there as she nips into her closet and pulls out clothing, piece after piece, asking me if this color blouse goes with that color pants or no, wait a minute, how about this sweater instead? Did I like the pink top or the mauve one? Did this pair of pants look better than the other pair?
     I encourage her to get dressed when I visit. It’s nice to see her perk up as she comes out of her bedroom in a sweater or shirt rather than a pajama top. I guess that the clothing thing hasn’t quite gone yet.
     My Mom the go-getter. No more. Ironically, her memory might be gone, but she is still cognizant of the fact that her life is empty. She often tells me that she doesn’t know what she’d do without her television. She does still like to watch documentaries on nature and anything medical. She still knows who we all are, we, her children.
     She loves for me to drop by. She always has a cookie to offer me. My mom the  sweetaholic. That certainly has not changed. She still can make a simple cup of tea. Just. She used to love making her regular orange pekoe tea with a bag of Earl Grey added to the pot. No more will I listen to her emphasize to me how much she loves to add that one bag to the other two. I still remember the day I asked her if she wanted me to reach up for her to snag the box of Earl Grey from a high shelf. She just stood there with this blank look on her face.
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Mom and I enjoying William Wegman’s book on Weimaraner dogs.

I do what I can when I visit to brighten her day, arriving with a couple of our favourite cranberry orange scones to nibble on as we chat, a book of cute pictures of Weimaraner dogs that we ooh and ah and laugh over, a book filled with pictures of the Queen Mother through the years that we enjoy together, and an interested ear to listen to her wartime stories.

     My mom. A war bride who came to Canada in 1945. Married my dad, a Canadian soldier she met during World War 2 when he was stationed in Hove where she lived. Three months. That’s all it took. They met. Three months later they married in England. She came over here towards the end of the war, to be joined soon after by my dad. 73 years ago.
     So that’s my Mom who I love with all my heart. This heart that sometimes feels broken. Like this morning when I cried. I feel as though there is a big empty nothing where my heart should be sometimes. I know what it feels like to be rent in two.
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Mom and I sharing the love at Christmas 2017

Please don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t try to change a thing. What is, is. Life unfolding just as it’s meant to be. But you know what? I am grateful. I have been given the greatest of gifts. When I give her a hug and a peck on the cheek as I prepare to leave after a visit, I can hear the love in her response, see it in the warmth of her eyes, and in her words to be careful that I don’t slip on that icy patch on the sidewalk beside the house. And, as I mentioned before, she still knows who I am. I’m not going to look ahead on that one. Why worry about what hasn’t happened yet? Conjecture isn’t helpful here. That’s a trap I don’t want to enter. I am also not going to get caught up in the mom who no longer is. What’s the point of that? How do I feel when I keep going over, again and again, how my mom used to be? Nope. Definitely not helpful.

Love. Love is now. Love is forever.
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Posted in Mom

A Gift to Remember

The train screeched and groaned its way onto the platform. Silhouetted against the Christmas lights shining through the windows of the station, the darkened figures dotting the platform gradually came into focus. I squinted, trying to locate them through the foggy vapors billowing back from the engine just ahead. It was December 24th, 1967. Christmas Eve. A happy time. Maybe. Wiping the condensation off the train window with the back of my mittened hand, I watched as his tall stout figure standing next to her short tiny one gradually became visible through the quickly dissipating mist. My stomach finally released me from its grip when I saw their faces. As I looked at them standing there among all the other families waiting for their loved ones, I couldn’t help but notice how much they looked like everybody else. But were they? I had never really thought about it before, but I now wondered how many of those smiling faces masked the kind of tension and unhappiness that hung like a cloud in my parent’s home. That unhappiness had provided the perfect excuse to run away on that Friday almost two months before. I told myself that I did it because my parents were arguing a lot. That was partly true. Some part of me knew better, though. I hadn’t been studying at all and was afraid to face the first of my grade ten secondary school exams on the following Monday. The part of me that knew this stayed buried deep inside.
“Dad.” I said, as I made my way away from the train towards him and my mother. Reaching him, I dropped my suitcase and stepped into the warmth of his hug. As a young child I had loved being enveloped in these arms: The faint scent of Old Spice aftershave. Rough whiskers scratching my face. Some things remain the same.
“Welcome home,” he said, as I pulled away from his embrace to give my mother a hug.
“I’m glad that French family of yours let you off for the holidays,” he said, grabbing my suitcase.
I thought for a moment about that phone call that I had made a month before to let them know I was okay. I remembered acting pretty casual about everything at the time. I had been surprised by the relief in his voice when I told him that I was working as a nanny for a Quebecois family who wanted their children to learn English. I had run away to Toronto first, then to Montreal where I had managed to get the nanny job in Ville D’Anjou after only three weeks. I was glad he cared enough to be worried about me, but didn’t he know that I could take care of myself? I mean, really…at sixteen years old?
As the three of us walked away from the station towards the car, I looked from my dad’s face to my mother’s and couldn’t help but wonder what this Christmas and the days ahead would be like.
Christmas day came and went. All I remember was how awful I felt because I had only received gifts. I had no money as I had yet to get a pay check from my Quebecois family;  I had been unable to buy anyone a gift. Not even something little. Throughout my childhood I had always had my allowances to buy my parents a Christmas gift. Just getting and not giving made me feel empty. My parents understood why I didn’t give gifts. They didn’t seem to mind. That didn’t help me to feel better.
Three days after Christmas found my dad and I making our way across the parking lot of Sayvette’s, a local department store. We had been shopping for a couple of hours. I was enjoying every minute of it.
“Thanks for the new suitcase, dad.” I said, sliding into the car seat beside him. Sitting quietly as he turned into the traffic on Wellington Road, I watched the wipers fight a losing battle with the sheets of rain spreading across the windshield. I felt safe and warm as I leaned back against the headrest.
We talked. I talked about smoking pot and he talked about how the police had not posted my picture in Montreal when I ran away because of the white slave trade.
“What’s the white slave trade?” I asked, looking straight ahead into the darkness outside.
“Men involved in organized crime kidnap young women to use as sex slaves.” He paused for a moment. “They’re kept as prisoners and forced to be prostitutes,” he said, taking his eyes off the road to glance at me. “If they try to escape they are beaten and sometimes killed.”
I turned to look at him, saying nothing. I was thinking once again of that phone call that I had made a month before to let him know I was okay. As I looked at his face, I wished that I had not been so flippant and nonchalant during that earlier conversation.
“Dad.” I finally said, breaking the silence. “I’m really glad to be home. It’s good to see you.”
“Your mother and I both feel the same way about you, Maureen.”
I didn’t want to hear about my mother. In the few days that I had been home, it seemed as though my mother was always picking on me about something.
“If she’s so happy to see me, then how come she keeps getting mad at me?” I asked, an edge in my voice.
Dad then did something that surprised me. He slowed the car and pulled into an empty parking space just in front of the YMCA. With the engine still running, he turned and looked straight at me. Quietly and in an even tone he spoke.
“The reason that your mother is picking fights with you, Maureen, is because she is having trouble dealing with her feelings about your running away. We didn’t know whether you were dead or not. That’s why she is so upset. We both love you a great deal.”
I didn’t say too much for the rest of the drive home. Dad told me how he would prefer it if I moved back home and went back to school, but that if I needed to be away for now, he understood. He just wanted things to be right for me. I could return to school next fall.
In bed that night I thought a lot about our conversation. I was finally aware of just how much my running away must have scared him and my mom. For me it had been an adventure. I had never once stopped to think of how my absence must have affected them. I was also more than a little bit in awe of the fact that my dad had not become angry with me when I had talked about pot. I wanted to see if I could talk to him about anything. None of my friends could talk to their parents like that. I remembered the day a few months before when I had told him that I was going to drop acid. It was about the time that I was beginning to admire him. I was testing him. I did a lot of that. He told me that he didn’t want me to take LSD but that I was an adult now and that being an adult meant that I could make my own choices. He also told me that I would have to be responsible for those choices. If something went wrong with my decision to take the drug, that as an adult, I was fully responsible for the consequences. He would not bail me out. I was pretty impressed. I know now how very hard that conversation must have been for him.
The day after buying the suitcase should have been Christmas day. As I stood with my arm linked through my father’s, waiting for our photograph to be snapped by my mother, I suddenly realized for the first time just how much I loved this man and how very lucky I was to have someone like him for a father.

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Me at 16, my dad, and Mary, my younger sister. The last photograph taken of my dad.

I squeezed his arm because I wanted him to know that I cared. I had never done that before. I felt shy. We weren’t a demonstrative family.

In two days I would be heading back to Montreal. With winter safely locked out behind the icy tapestry decorating the kitchen windowpane, I sat at the table listening to my dad and sipping hot chocolate.
“I lost all my men in Italy.” He said. “I was supposed to go with them, but at the last moment I got orders keeping me in England.” He was silent for a moment. He looked at me as though expecting something.
“I should have been with them.” He said quietly.
My dad was telling one of his war stories. As I sat there, I remained quiet. I didn’t say ‘not again’; I didn’t try to change the subject; I didn’t act bored. I really listened and didn’t try to stop him, even though I had heard this story many times before. For the first time I didn’t care about me and whether or not I was bored. All that mattered was letting him talk because what he was talking about was important to him. He was all that counted. It was wonderful to watch his face and hear the pleasure in his voice as he told his story to someone who wanted to hear. No one ever wanted to listen to his World War II stories, but he would tell them anyway. I would be many years older before I could even begin to comprehend how war altered a human being forever. And how those stories were more than stories. They were a part of what he was.
The day finally came to say good-bye. The drive to the station was a quiet one. As I watched him put my luggage into the train’s overhead storage compartment, I thought about how well things had gone over the holidays. Just before he turned to leave he hugged and kissed me good-bye. I felt embarrassed about kissing him in front of everybody and ashamed about feeling embarrassed. After making sure I was comfortable in my seat, he walked towards the exit, but before he disembarked, he stopped and turned to face me. As I watched him, he looked at me in the strangest way. I have never seen a look like that before on another human being, not then, or now. Ever. I could see the love in his eyes; I could also see incredible sadness. And I saw something else. I didn’t know it then, but that look would haunt me for years.
As the train clacked its way to Toronto I cried quietly. I couldn’t understand why I was so upset. I knew that something in that final look had disturbed me greatly, but why should a facial expression upset me so much? I knew that I would be back again in the near future for a visit. I really should be happy. I couldn’t wait to see my dad again. I wanted to show him how much I cared. The war stories were just a beginning.
Three days later, on January 4th, 1968, my dad died of a massive heart attack.
It is now January 4, 2018. Fifty years have passed. If I close my eyes I can still see him standing next to the kitchen table. I can smell the dampness of the car in that parking lot at Sayvette’s. I can feel his fear at the side of the road. But most importantly, I can still feel the love so evident throughout that final week of his life. Thank you dad for my life and for your love. May you rest in peace.
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Looks ARE Deceiving

I have often thought about the fact that I really don’t know what is going on in another human being’s life, especially when, in my perception (and that is all it is: my perception), that individual is behaving in a negative way. I am grateful for this post; it is well worth sharing. Peace to you all.

going outwords & inwords

We can never know what’s going on for someone else.

I was at the Tuscon airport a couple of days ago, preparing to fly back home here to Montana. I sat down at the terminal, in close enough proximity to a woman who’s cell phone conversation I could hear very readily. She was an attractive woman. Shoulder-length blonde hair, middle-aged. She was sitting at the electronic port station situated in front of a large window overlooking the tarmac. Although there was little I could do not to overhear her conversation, I felt badly for eavesdropping, so I quickened my pace in getting the music going on my iPod. In the meantime, however, I learned that she was leaving her 20-something-year-old son behind, to return back home, after situating him into a rehab. He was not at all well – detoxing, incoherent, unable to care for himself. His girlfriend would be…

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Like a Cloud of the Cumulus Sort

Life: Unpredictable. Changeable. Impermanent. When I gaze at my reflection in a mirror, the image I see is very different from the one I saw ten or thirty or forty years ago. From month to month, year to year, and decade to decade, what I bear witness to, not only in the mirror, but in my head, heart, and on the roller coaster ride we call life, is always changing. Thoughts come and go as do feelings. Impermanence is a fact of life and a good reason not to take things for granted. From the moment we are born until the moment we take our last breath life is always in flux. With that in mind I’d like to share a page from my life, a page taken from when I was thirteen years old:

You can get polio from garbage. That’s what my parents told me when I was younger. I look at the debris scarring the hill before me: the familiar red and white colors of the empty Campbell’s soup tin, its jagged-edged lid hanging on by only a thread; a flattened Alpha Bits cereal box; moldy coffee grounds; a moving white mound, maggots enjoying an early afternoon meal of rotting cherries. I try to imagine some invisible menace lurking there. It still seems as unreal as back then. Before the vaccine.

“You may play baseball there, but stay away from the side of the hill.” I can still hear them with their stories of iron lungs and crippled people and death.

“Aw Sandy, get out of there,” I say, suddenly jolted back to the present. Sandy ignores me. He pushes his snout under the decaying meat-covered bones into the dirt. Dogs can be so disgusting sometimes.

“Sandy. Out.” I wear my best angry face. Sandy picks up on my tone and looks up at me with black encrusted snout. Dogs are also easy to fool.

“Here boy!”

I look away from him and sprint across the grass toward the crumbling old flour mill at the other end of the hill. I smile as he flies past and disappears over the rise. It works every time. Sandy loves to race around when we go on these treks through the fields behind my house.

Arriving at the crest of the hill, I glance at the mill nestled amidst the trees just across the road at the base of the embankment, turn right, scramble down the slope, and start across a second field. The sun beats down. I slow to a walk. As I look ahead I can see Sandy in the distance at the end of the grassy expanse.

I scan for rocks as I go. Whenever I reach one I stop, pry it loose at one end, and carefully raise it a little. I only find one snake this time. A big two foot one though. A garter snake. Usually I manage to find two or three grass snakes by the time I make my way across the field, hardly ever a garter snake. They seem to like the woods better. Once I find a snake, I return the rock to its original position, and continue on to the next rock. It’s fun just to find them. I like the way when you look across the field it appears as though all there is is grass, but really it’s home to all sorts of creatures. I like to pretend that I am the only one who knows about this secret that the field hides. It’s just me and them.

I meander along this way for about half an hour, alternately checking under rocks and keeping an eye on Sandy.

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Sandy

Eventually I arrive at a spot about halfway across the field overlooking a dirt road and the woods beyond. I sit down with my back to the road.

I have my writing pad with me. I love spending an afternoon like this, surrounded by nothing but green. Just me, Sandy, and my poetry.

I started writing poetry after I studied Shakespeare in my grade nine class last term. When I was in grade eight, all the older kids warned me about Shakespeare: You’ll hate it. It’s boring. It doesn’t make any sense.

They were wrong. After reading Romeo and Juliet I fell in love with Shakespeare. I am still in awe of how he can turn ordinary language into such beautiful natural sounding verse.

Soon I am immersed in my writing. I am working on a poem about death. I write about everything, but today it’s death:

It hovered near, steadfast, foreboding

Like a cloud of the cumulus sort,

Never wavering, to darken all within range.

Suddenly the heavens opened…

My grandmother took a long time to die. I can still see her with her bright intelligent eyes, looking down at me from her hospital bed, comprehending everything and able to say nothing. Somehow I knew that the grandma who used to give me Taveners Fruit Drops and let me watch her clean the budgie cage was still there, trapped behind the warmth in her eyes. I felt so sad for her. I loved my grandmother. She loved me too; I could see it as she spoke to me through her eyes.

Grandma Connor

My grandma, me, and my younger sister

I used to love it when dad took me to visit her. It was a time when everything seemed larger than life: the hospital with its huge entranceway, the long halls with the nurses rushing along to places I was sure were scary and not places that little girls would want to be, even my grandmother’s pale green room with its high ceiling and window ledge that barely reached the top of my head.

I look up from the page and smile as I catch sight of the streak of gold to my left. Sandy is chasing a rabbit. I watch as the rabbit bounds and Sandy scrambles. No use yelling. He’ll never hear me. I hope the rabbit gets away.

We had a pet rabbit once. The two of them loved to play chase. Thumper would wait till Sandy was asleep, then creep up to him and thump him with his large hind feet before taking off through the house. They would race through the rooms until Sandy caught him. Thumper would go limp; Sandy would release him, and they would start the game all over again. I really don’t know what Sandy will do if he actually catches the wild rabbit he is currently chasing.

I watch Sandy for a moment longer, then look past him until my gaze comes to rest at the top of a small hill where the road disappears as it works it way toward the houses at the far end of my street. I trace the ribbon of brown with my eyes as it winds its way down the hill and around the bend toward me, finally reaching the foot of the embankment just a few yards behind and below where I am sitting. Hardly anyone ever drives down this way because the road comes to an abrupt halt just on the other side of the woods at the edge of the river. I like it that way. Occasionally I’m disturbed by a car, fishing poles visible in the back seat or poking out of the trunk, but outside of that, I pretty much have this place to myself.

Returning my attention to Sandy, I scan the field. The rabbit has disappeared. With the rabbit safe, I resume my writing. I love poetry. It makes me think about things in a different way. I often find that there is something strangely beautiful, or refreshingly novel, in the way some poets write about the everyday world.

“Sandy, you silly old thing,” I say affectionately as the cocker spaniel bounds up to me, stops, and proceeds to push his head against my arm. Putting my notebook down and grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, I pull him toward me, give him a big squeeze, and then bury my face in his fur. I sit there holding him, breathing in his scent. Sometimes I just can’t get enough of him: his doggy smell, his warmth, the smooth tension under his fur.

Hearing the sound of a motor, I look up just long enough to see an older-looking black car come into view from the top of the hill on my left. Releasing Sandy, I turn around and face the road. Pulling up to the foot of the embankment directly below me, the car comes to a gradual halt. I can see two clean-cut young men sitting in the front seat of the car looking at me, smiling. Smiling back at them, I wait as the driver lowers the window. It won’t be the first time I’ve given directions to a couple of fishermen. You really can’t see the river from this vantage point. It is pretty well obscured by the woods.

I suddenly freeze, the color draining from my cheeks. In front of the still friendly face smiling up at me, I look down into the black barrel of a gun. I can’t believe what I am seeing. This can’t be real. It has to be a joke.

“I’m going to kill you,” says the man, looking directly at me, the smile no longer friendly.

My every instinct screams at me to run, but I sit glued to the ground, my stomach lead. I sit helplessly as the scene playing itself out in front of me is replaced by a series of slow moving pictures of myself getting up, turning around, and running across the field away from the man, a gun going off, and my body dropping to the ground. No, I want to scream. Not now. Not me. I’m not ready to die. I remain quiet. I look once again into the nose of the revolver pointed directly at me, and then at the now unsmiling face of its owner. This is really it, I think, as nausea threatens to overcome me.

Suddenly I’m furious. No. Way. You are not taking this from me.

That’s when my whole world changes forever. I feel a tranquility descend upon me, envelop me, alter me. It’s unlike anything that I have ever known. I have never felt such peace. Not ever. My fear gone, I now know with every fiber of my being that dying is no more important than living. They’re the same. With the blanket of calm also comes the knowledge that I will not turn and run. If this guy is for real, this will be my death. I can’t stop him from shooting me, and there is no way he’s going to miss. If this is to be my last moment on earth, I want to experience it fully. Dying is as much a part of life as being born.This is my life and my death.

I try to imagine the moment of being shot, of seeing myself being hit, and seeing myself die. I’m fascinated. Excited. And so very curious. I’m going to experience something that every human being must go through and I’m going to be alert as it happens. I just wish that I could live to remember what I’ll feel when I die. Maybe I will know with whatever comes after. I wonder what does come after. Somehow that doesn’t matter. As long as I don’t miss this part of my life. Calm now, and utterly at peace, I raise my eyes to meet the gaze of my killer as he shoots me.

I sit there, motionless. The peals of laughter coming from the front seat of the car pierce through me like a knife.

“Just kidding,” says the man with the gun, looking straight at me and grinning.

I watch in stunned silence as the men look at me and laugh uproariously. Before I can even react, the driver, still grinning, wishes me a nice day, rolls up the window, and speeds off.

It was a blank. There is no bullet.

I shiver in the warmth of the late afternoon sun. I clutch at my stomach, trying to control the wave of nausea that again threatens to overcome me. A little way down the embankment a snake sits sunning itself on a rock. The song of a lone bullfrog in the distance cuts through the stillness like a canoe through a glass lake.

I stand up. The snake is gone. The song has become a chorus. I turn, whistle for Sandy, and head across the field toward home.

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It’s Called Penobscot for a Reason

I wish to share this post with all of you because not only do I believe that it very much resonates with the theme of this blog, but is of great importance. This post saddens me. When will we ever learn? I like to believe that, bit by bit, more and more people are becoming aware of the need to not only respect the rights of indigenous people, but to see and embrace their wisdom of the earth in relation to all that is. I pray that the right actions are taken to protect them and this precious planet that we call earth.

Finding Our Way Home

Kirk Francis [Penobscot chief, Kirk Francis, speaking at the rally] Yesterday, I went up to Bangor for a Penobscot River Sovereignty Rally.  This was in response to a recent Appeals Court ruling that stated that the Penobscot River is not a part of the Penobscot Nation–despite the history, despite the fact that the water has never been ceded by any treaty.  This description is from the Event Page:

On Friday, June 30th, the First Circuit Court of Appeals sanctioned the State of Maine’s territorial taking of the Penobscot Nation’s ancestral waterways, by ruling against the Tribe in the Penobscot Nation v. Attorney General Janet Mills, case.

We will not accept this decision. We now call upon ALL of our friends to come and stand with us during this critical time, to say no to the State’s continued infringement upon Tribal rights. Their attempts to violate standing treaty rights and the Maine…

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Cherokee Wisdom

The following is something that I shared in 2008 with a group of friends who came to my home to meditate on Sunday mornings. They had all wished to be included in regular emails that I sent out, emails in which I spoke words that connected with that open-hearted place we all share. A personal incident, recorded below, also precipitated my decision to send the following post to them. Very quickly I received responses from many of them; the post had resonated strongly. So once again, from the heart, are the words I wrote so long ago:

Hi everybody,

This morning I got caught up in anger. And of course, because I habitually watch my mind and its antics, I saw what I was doing. I even saw myself paying lip service to “I’d better not talk right now; I don’t want to say anything from anger.” Then, a moment later, continue to speak from that negative angry place. My ego was right in there saying: “Screw the Buddhist way. To hell with the tools. I want to be angry. And I want to let this person know that I am really ticked.”

So…why am I telling you all this? Well, I recently came across the following passage that a friend had sent to me a while ago and that I, in turn, had emailed out to others. I had already been thinking of sending it out to you and then New Year’s Eve found myself talking to a friend. He had brought it up as something that had stood out for him; he had rather liked it. I realized instantly that he was not the only one who had let me know that the passage had struck a chord for them.

And so this morning, here I was, totally caught up in that angry place (And of course telling myself that well, my day had been ruined and of course blaming the other person for it; I certainly had nothing to do with how I was feeling.), when I sat down to my computer to write. Then something unexpected happened. As I reread the passage something in me shifted. I could feel the trappings of my ego kind of just fall away and a little bit of clarity seemed to shine through and suddenly I was at peace. My ego had lost its grip. My anger was gone.

      Cherokee Wisdom

One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on

inside people. He said, “My son, the battle is between two ‘wolves’ inside us all. One is

evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt,

resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego. The other is good. It is

joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy,

generosity, truth, compassion and faith.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather: “Which

wolf wins?” The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

And so this morning, what had I done? I fed the wolf of negativity. And how had that made me feel? Pretty darned crappy (not to mention the other person to whom my angry outburst had been directed). Interesting how the mind works…

Maureen (Samten)

 

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