Kuttolsheim, France

I am in France doing a three plus week teaching. I am a bit at a loss for words these days. I am living with a French woman, her five children and a fellow student from Hungary. Eve, the French woman also goes to the teaching.

It is about suffering for me; how to mitigate it both for myself and others. Such a simple idea; making it better and yet how challenging.

Every day we go and sit, listen to the teachings and receive initiations on special occasions as only the Tibetan Buddhists can. At night or when I meditate, sadness at the heartache of those I love floats up like flotsam and I hope; oh how I hope, that there is some way to relieve it.

I don't know if you read this just as I don't know why meditating seems to make it better but whether you do or not, I am grateful for your presence in my life; it is a gift.

"I am loved as much as I am able to receive it" Thoreau

But my mind was on the baking.

June 22, 2010

Kitchens, the heart of the house, no kitchen, no mama. No one home. Where’s home? Blue mixing bowl, yellow batter, pancakes. Mornings were good. The smell of coffee, toast, laughter, subdued, not night time laughter. The everlasting optimism of morning. Anything is possible. You never know what a day will bring. Morning energy, rested but still softly sleepy, face fresh washed. Morning forgiveness, fresh start. Ah how many pancakes? Ask for what you want and get it. Where’s the butter? Do we have real maple syrup? Yes, yes, the answer is yes. People who are there in the morning love you. No fake social shit. Morning, light clear and revealing. What shall we do today? We need to go to the grocery store, feeding all these people food melts away like butter in the summer sun. Where’s the list? That’s the last carton of milk. We need more eggs.

“Morning, Papa, do you want some OJ?” Smiles of appreciation, eyes not lost in remembering, drowned in disappointment or fatigue. My nephews arrive with sleepy faces needing hugs. They seek out willing arms, thumb in mouth, contemplating the hubbub of getting breakfast for so many in the grandparent’s kitchen with no usual routine and familiar places to sit as we all circle around the kitchen, helping ourselves to more food, talking, sitting where ever we can. Then there is the slow building silence as people move out to run errands, work on projects, retreat to the living room to read, settle back into their own private reveries and close down the doors of interaction.

I am loved as much as I am able to receive it.

Those moments, those people are gone. Yet they remain frozen like an old movie that I can play when I choose. Nana and Granda are gone, My sister Ann’s husband, George, is gone. Thumb sucking Paul is now a six foot four inch 42 year old, his younger brother is six foot two with two small daughters. The farm is a park, the house, a visitor center. Time waits for no man. I stand in time as if it were a fast stream roaring past, legs planted deeply in rocks, leaning into the current, legs cold with the water, shoulders hot with the sun, breeze licking cool, balance swaying. The water sparkles in light moving, dancing on its surface. The light is beguiling, pulling me in, inviting me to dance, let the water roar past, let the film run lovingly in the background, let the breeze dry my tears, feel the power of the stream, the shifting boulders under my feet as the waist deep water holds me.

One summer, I haven’t told you about this, twenty years ago right after my husband left, I went on a five day horseback ride with Ann and George and another friend in Yellowstone. One night, summer sky still glowing, we walked to the stream coming from the thermal hot springs and went skinny dipping. I lay in the shallow stream, move upstream for more heat, downstream for less, feet anchored by rocks, arms floating and the sky, that big northern night sky above, changing from glow to almost dark and then the moon came up as we lay there. Walking home, the horses had turned to silhouettes, the night air cooled our water heated skin and we laughed into the quiet, heads back, wet hair down my back, body loose from the riding all day and the heat soaked night swim.

I am loved as much as I am able to receive it.

I haven’t told you that with my hearing aide I can hear things dogs can hear, or at least manmade sounds that only dogs are supposed to hear. It makes me wonder how many other things I’m not hearing, not seeing, not sensing. My spectrum is so small, so expected.

I want to stretch what I can receive. I want to carry with me, in my car, in the dentist’s chair, that river running through me with my feet anchored in stones and the light dancing, dancing on the water, in the leaves, into my heart. I want that heat that comes from deep in the earth to infuse my body so I too can dance in the light dancing in me.

A World Begins and Ends at Kitchen Tables

June 22, 2010

A cup of tea, blue mug, the string hanging over the side with the small pennant attached. Unnecessary stirring due to a certain reluctance. Maybe now would be a good time to truly stay in the moment. Does it count if my motivation is to avoid the future? It counts. Staying in the moment is so hard to do, any motivation is fine. Thoughts swirl. Why is the brain so meticulous, picking up every random thought the way dust bunnies collect in my house? I can always tell when I’ve played too much solitaire, relationships transmute into cards. King to my ace, a series of 3456 that moves to sit on the 7, all spades. And then the trash novel I’ve been reading, “his intense dark eyes followed her,” and then why does the GPS treat intersecting highways, mere exits in reality, as an opportunity to repeat, in that loud, mechanical voice, “In .4 miles stay left, then continue 12.5 miles on highway 680.” The brain seems to have little discrimination; any data, like dust, will do. And I aid and abet this willfulness less I be forced to notice that I have no goal, no obvious purpose, no consistent connection. I too, float about like dust, staying with Brigid, Jan, Cindy, Jenifer. Which day of the week it is determines whether I am in Oakland, Napa, Fairfield or Sacramento.

What am I doing? I am between trips, as I sip the tea, tea, the one constant—I drink it everywhere. I suppose even more than the tea, I am the one constant. Me, pushing me, forcing change, forcing discomfort, pulling at old ways and assumptions that say this is how life should be, this is what is deemed successful. Where have I wandered? Home, such as it is, for four weeks then back on a plane, back to Paris and then a tiny town in northeast France to sit for three weeks with a Tibetan rimpoche, to receive a teaching, stumble about with my high school French, live in a gymnasium—only 15 euros a night. Why? Ah, the tea. I hold the blue mug with both hands, fingers wrapped around soaking in the warmth. The solidity of the mug that can hold hot water over and over again comforts me. Sipping the hot tea I remind myself to be here, feel my butt on the chair, feel the heat in my hands. And off goes my brain. Einstein said that if anyone could focus on one thing for 45 seconds at a time, he could master his universe. Makes sense to me. My head feels foggy; I’m still driving in my car, listening to music, tired from night after night of minimal sleep. Ah, the litany of complaints is much more satisfying than considering what I’m doing with my life, especially when I’m a bit cloudy on that issue. Waking up can take lifetimes, my teacher tells me. No rush, as long as I am on the path. But why do something if there’s no hope of succeeding, at least in this life time? Point. That kind of delayed gratification is definitely un-American. So, what else would I do? Well, I could, to quote Jenifer, do something fun and trivial and make lots of money. Right. OK, well I could go back to work, help others. But inevitably that road leads back to here, that sense of utter depletion of having given too much, of facing yet again the fragility of being human and the inevitability of my own death. I sip the tea again. There is no solution to this argument. Nothing, nothing appeals.

When I am face to face with the rimpoche or other enlightened beings, something happens, my brain tingles, my heart feels stretched the way looking at the ocean causes my eyes to relax, zoom out and feel the size of this planet. It is as if, when these awakened souls see me, when they really look into my soul, I can, for that brief moment, see myself, see the possibility of myself, of how big my heart can be how much my soul can hold and at the same time, still be held by something bigger, something knowing.

I sip my tea. Einstein says 45 seconds is enough to change your life. I sigh. 45 seconds. It is an eternity.

Leaving Vienna

Today I say good-bye to Vienna and take the train to Munich, then on to the retreat location, two hours north west of Munich. I took a long time at breakfast this morning, as I woke early in restless anticipation. From the fifth floor of this hotel where the dining room is located, I can see the hills surrounding Vienna. There are old buildings here. It is amazing how old. Of course you know that; maybe you will snicker. Maybe you should. This town started 2000 years ago. The Romans were here. I think in Europe, the Romans were a bit like George Washington on the east coast, they slept everywhere. Only they did more than sleep. They built, they ran things, they printed their ways so deeply that ensuing powers followed in the paths they created. Of course you know this as well. Even I knew this. Yet it is different to feel it. To sit and look around and imagine all that has come because this outpost was created, then built upon, then rebuilt, then again built. My friend, Edith spoke of the Russians ransacking Vienna after the war and I look up the narrow streets and imagine what it would be like to be waiting in my home, my prized possessions hidden away, hoping against hope that my home would be spared, my family safe. I look up the narrow streets and wonder what it would be like to be a Russian, years lost in the misery of war, near starvation, bitter cold, family left long behind in stark poverty, to come down these streets and see rock solid, four story homes, one after another, beautiful homes, beautiful furnishings, plumbing that didn't exist back home, luxuries unimagined to rampage and revel in this unexpected wealth free for the taking, the fruits of war.

I read the history of Vienna, of the Kings and Princes who were good managers, under whom the city thrived, music and creative geniuses found a place to convene, create. At one time, 6% of the population was a musician. Even now, as I travel the train, I see people with music cases, guitars, cellos, bases, violins carried about. I go to the music hall and find myself chatting with a young Canadian who is studying opera in Milano up visiting for the weekend. He is a tenor, hopes to work ultimately in Vancover and travel back and forth between there and Europe to sing. I go to the music museum and after three hours of meandering through time with Mozart, Beethoven, Hayden and others, conducting an orchestra, I sit in the atrium only to discover an elderly gentleman playing the grand piano there. He tells a fellow listener that he plays pieces he has composed himself and wonders how his music seems to others. The notes, they fall over me, surround me and I float in their spaces, in their beauty.

On the road again

I'm in Vienna, Austria. I can't quite believe it. In fact, in the airport in San Francisco last evening, talking to my brother, I told him I was going to Venice and then was confused by why he suggested I not take the gondolas as they were overpriced. Ah yes, spaciness is the first thing I pack. I find myself looking a bit like the dithering old lady, small wallet around her neck with important papers so I won't get lost or lose my passport or money or flight info. But there is such freedom in leaving home the should's. On the plane I get to be comfortable. I get to talk to whomever I wish or be silent. I get to read, sleep, watch a movie or meditate. Then I arrive and I get to see amazing sights. I get to learn stuff. The Hapsburg's ran Austria for 600 years. Sheesh. Oh this isn't very coherent which might be linked to the fact that I just arrived at my hotel after taking the red eye from SF to Munich and then another short flight to Vienna. But I just had to tell you, whoever is reading, the joy of this adventure, of getting on a plane and going somewhere I've never been, seeing things I've only read about and then having the luxury to settle in, settle down, rest down into myself in the excellent company of my teacher and fellow students and discover what will be revealed next.

I just had to say hello, the traveler part of me.

Fresh Bread

Fresh Bread—27 April 2010

Fresh bread just out of the oven, it was one of my mother’s later discoveries. She bought the dough already shaped and frozen into pre-risen loaves, let them thaw, rise and then bake them. It was white bread with no redeeming nutritional value and yet, hot out of the oven, its scent exploding through the house like an ancient siren, it didn’t matter. Late afternoon the smell of it pulls me into the kitchen like a gravitational force. The kitchen in my parents’ home is a huge square with dark brown cabinets on two sides of the room. The refrigerator on the north side of the room is next to the hallway that leads to the garage. The sink is in the corner and on the east side of the room; the cabinets are split by a narrow window that looks out onto Mother’s garden. The south side of the room consists of Mother’s desk, flanked on either side with more cabinets for her files and a window over the desk that looks down the hill to the lake. The door to the screened in porch is on that wall. On the west wall, the wall that has the swinging door to the rest of the house is a stone fireplace and a bar with lighted shelves above where glasses shine. Two chairs sit in front of the fireplace. In the center of the room is an island with the stove in the center surrounded by Italian tile, white background, green vines and orange flowers with matching green tile trim on the edges. The two ovens are below the stove. There is a sofa on the backside of the island facing Mother’s desk. This is the room my parents lived in. In the winter, there is a constant fire in the fireplace with frequent trips through the garage to the woodpile stacked high. Mother is usually at her desk though sometimes she sits on the floor, legs spread, playing solitaire. Dad sits either on the sofa or a chair or sometimes at the small card table next to the island with the mail spread out before him.

The smell of fresh bread circles. Mother, who used to be so strict about eating in between meals puts the bread on cooling racks and then watches the vultures circle, as she says. She makes a brief complaint, “if you cut it before it’s cooled, it’ll smoosh down.” I agree heartily, get the sharpest bread knife and proceed to carefully slice two pieces, with minor smooshing. Then I add the butter to melt easily on the still warm bread and last, either local honey or homemade strawberry jam. It is a tough choice.

Dad waits until I’ve cut the first slice and then says, “I’ll have some of that too, Miggs,” as if he’s just noticed what is going on, wasn’t in support of cutting too warm bread but since it has already happened. . . It was a delicious moment, that quiet camaraderie. Mother superiorly saying she wouldn’t have any because she didn’t want to get fat and Dad and I smiling, and saying nothing, eating and nodding, licking our sticky fingers, she being the only fat person in the room. Then, of course, we needed something to drink, some juice for me, a soda for Dad. And he would smile again that sweet smile when I set his glass in front of him before he returned to his reading. Mother would resume her current project, working at her desk or planning her spring garden or looking through the 101 catalogues that came daily, it seemed. She bought everything she could from a catalogue so she wouldn’t have to make a trip to town. And I would settle into the unclaimed chair, pick up a magazine I hadn’t yet read or just watch the fire, poke it a bit, fetch some more wood and smell that smell as I came back in from the cold outside, that sweet fresh bread smell mixed with the slight scent of smoke. It was my home. I could not imagine that it would ever change.

I'm 10 today

April 6, 2010

Chocolate croissant, flaky, a touch of cinnamon it sticks to my fingers and I have to lick them clean. I lick my fingers clean and then wipe them on my jeans, then wipe my lips with my forearm. I’m 10 today. And Mother finally let me have a birthday party. I’ve been to lots of birthday parties. The kids in my fancy pants private school are big on ‘em. Mom tends to forget about them until the last minute so she keeps a handy dandy supply of tiny flashlights that can be wrapped at the last minute before we dash into the car, the last to arrive. I’ve been to birthday parties at fancy restaurants, the family owned it. I’ve been to birthday parties where there were clowns, rented ponies, swimming in the pool. Usually the whole class is invited so there are fifteen of us which means lots of presents. There’s a perfect cake with fancy writing. There’s always a picture drawn in a different colored icing. If it’s a boy’s birthday, it’s a puppy or a soccer ball, if it’s a girl’s, flowers or dolls with lots of pink. I love getting a big piece, an outside piece so it has lots of icing cause the cake is usually tasteless. But the icing is so sweet it makes my teeth hurt and the fancy, stiff paper napkins that match the plates don’t do a good job of getting it off my fingers. I never wiped it on my good dress, though.

But Mother wouldn’t let me have a birthday party. For one, my birthday was in June, after school was out and school friends were not always about, I suppose. June is a real busy time at our house. The vegetable garden needs all kinds of attention, so does the flower gardens. Haying is about to start or has started already if the rain has let up. New calves have to be tagged, a kind of ear piercing and the cattle need to be moved a lot so they don’t over graze the pastures as the grasses start to come in. There’s way too much to do to have a party. My older brother and sisters had parties when they were little but their birthdays are in fall and winter and besides, when they were little, the farm was much smaller. But ten, turning ten is a big deal. Two digits. The beginnings of teenagerhood. Growing up in a big way, not a baby. So Mother decided a small party would do. She invited the two neighbor boys, Randy Zabaron and Jimmy Tenneson, the only two kids my age within three miles and the son of family friend, Douggie Kohn. My grandmother came and took our picture. There was the one of me sitting on Ann’s bed with my presents all around. I had on my Davy Crockett hat and my Davy Crocket T-shirt. I’m holding the picnic basket with the lid up so you can see the small plastic settings, the two cups and saucers and forks and spoons and knives. And there was the yellow 45 record of the Davy Crockett theme song, “Davy, Davy Crockett, king of the wild frontier.” There was some other stuff but I don’t remember what it was. I remember the smile though, and the way my shoulders were, strong and wide. I was so alive then.

Why tell you this, about that frozen moment in time? I sit here, an old woman now, at least in the eyes of that ten year old girl. Another birthday looms, a big birthday, 60. Clean digits; I like that. Born in 1950, 60 years old. I am not hoping for a Davy Crockett hat this time. So what am I hoping for? A knee that will continue to work without surgery. For my daughter to break free of her suffering, for my son to find the next, life giving step in his journey. Me, for me, I also want the next step, the next life giving step in my journey. It is the walk I take, this search, this journey. Maybe, just maybe, I do have something in common with Davy Crockett.