Winter Sunrise

Winter sunrise

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Walking through the

Forest; dark verdure,

Gnarled fingers working

Phthalo clay.

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I exhale, admiring the

Pearl-shrouded purity,

That frozen moment before

An in-drawn breath.

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High above me

A hawk rides the sunlight,

Splayed tail ablaze;

Luminous amber, rust-red.

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I soar upward, yet sink inward…

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Back on earth, now,

I continue along my path

With a renewed appreciation

Of the unfathomable.

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The other

An odd moment occurred while I was out for my morning walk; I attempted to dismiss it as a phantasm, or the day-dream of a chap who’d read too much popular theoretical physics, Jorge Louis Borges, and speculative fiction, but I couldn’t shake the event from my consciousness.

I was tired; I’d slept in and I had to force myself to get outside for fresh air. About half-way around my usual walk, I came to a fork in the path; I could cut back to the right, a short-cut through the park, or I could continue left, as usual. I felt an odd shimmer deep in the centre of my being; I turned to follow the left-hand path, but he — the other — turned right. He soon vanished into the ethereal space of another world, but I saw him clearly for a moment. He was favouring his left leg, probably due to our sore hip. He turned around, smiled, and said something before he faded into obscurity. His words were swallowed  quickly, as if absorbed in water, but I think he said, “Take care.” He looked exhausted, like he carried a great weight; there were lines of fatigue etched on his face, but he radiated kindness. My heart went out to him, and I wished him well as I continued on my way.

I felt light, energetic, and my mood had risen; I’ve been somewhat moody for the past few weeks, and I suddenly wondered why. I think the other had taken a load of my suffering with him. My hip felt better and my soul was cleansed. He hadn’t taken it all; that would be unfair, but his altruism was stunning.

I wonder how his future will unfold; although he enriched my life, I think his actions raised him to another level. I wish there was something I could do for him. And maybe there is: I can acknowledge his gift by spreading his kindness. I hope I’m equal to the task.

I hope our paths will converge again someday; it would be fun to regale each other with the stories of our separate lives.

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Norman

It was a beautiful day yesterday, and I had a couple of hours to myself.

I was waiting for my wife and daughter (Cathy and Brynne) by the Strawberry Hills movie theatre (they were watching Iron Man III, which didn’t appeal to me). I spent about a half-hour at Chapters, discovered a few books I might like to read but didn’t buy anything, and then I went outside and walked until I found a bench in the shade where I could sit and peacefully puzzle through a few pages of Riddley Walker.

I was making some real headway through the novel (either I was beginning to catch on to the language, or it becomes easier as the book progresses) and was reading with a studious intensity, but I eventually realized that a pair of legs was stopped in front of me, and I looked up from the book and into a smiling face.

© Craig Hitchens, artist

A man stood in front of me, waiting patiently for my attention. He was dressed in apricot kurta and shalwar, and wore sandals on his feet. His white hair and beard were close-cut. I think he was a bit older than me, possibly in his mid-sixties (although when I look in the mirror I think I look older than me too).

“Hello,” he said. “I saw you sitting here, and came over to meet you.” His accent was thick, and it was difficult to understand him over the roar of traffic that was only a few dozen meters away.

I stood to shake his hand, but he waved me back down: “Relax,” he said with a smile.

We chatted for a few moments, communicating somewhat effectively. He did most of the talking; he was sharing his philosophy, his approach to living the right sort of existence.

“You’re a nice person,” he told me, which made me feel pretty good. “What is your name?”

I told him, and asked for his in return. His name was long, and although he had me pronounce it one syllable at a time along with him, I was hopelessly lost by the time he had finished. He flashed a wide smile and said, “I have many friends who cannot pronounce it. They call me Norman.”

The name seemed anomalous, but oddly fitting: “Okay,” I said, “it’s nice to meet you, Norman.” We shook hands again (he liked to shake hands; we must have performed this ritual a half-dozen times during our conversation).

We talked some more; well, he did most of the talking, and I did a lot of nodding, but managed to toss enough thoughts into the air to prove that I was listening, understanding, and that we were, for the most part, of one mind with his philosophy. We certainly agreed that God isn’t a single, separate entity; God is everything.

Norman spoke with a quiet passion; I didn’t get everything he said, but he talked about positive and negative forces (whether he meant right and wrong, or something similar to yin and yang was unclear, but I nodded), being in accord with God, and many other things.

Soon, it was almost time for the movie to end, and I said my farewells to Norman.

He shook my hand and said, “Think, and you will be rich. We will meet again, okay?”

I said, “Do you want to make plans to meet?”

“No,” he said with a smile. “We will meet again.”

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A boy and his Mom

Sometimes conversations are meant for eavesdropping…

I was standing in the aisle on a bus. A young mother (in her mid thirties) and her son (perhaps seven years old) were sitting on the seat beside me. The woman was reading a paperback and the boy was playing a game on a hand-held device; his legs were swinging, his eyes were glued to the screen.

Suddenly, the boy’s legs stilled; he looked sideways, and said, “Mom?”

“Yes?” she answered, but her eyes remained on the book.

“Why are some people evil?”

The woman closed the book, set it on her lap. She thought for a moment, and then said, “I think it’s a bad choice they’ve made. We all have good and bad thoughts, and it’s up to each of us to decide which thoughts to follow. I think that without evil it’s impossible to decide what is good. It’s like hard things and soft thinks: you need the comparison to tell which is which. There are people at the two ends of the scale of behaviour: saints and evil people. The rest of the people — most of us — are in-between saints and evil people. The average person, most of society, decides that it’s better to be more like a saint than an evil person. Maybe it’s the difference that helps people to decide to become better human beings.”

The boy’s attention returned to the game, his legs a-swinging. The woman smiled, and then opened her book and continued reading.

But a few moments later the boy’s legs stilled; he looked at the woman again and said, “Mom?”

“Mmm, hmm?”

“What if saints were even better, and evil people not so evil? Or if there was more saints and less bad people? Then the difference between good and evil would go toward better, and average people would be nicer. Wouldn’t that be good?”

His mom paused for several seconds before answering; finally, she said, “Yes. Yes, that would be good.” And she put her book into her purse and hugged him until I got off the bus two stops later.

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The Amphitheatre and the Orb

Many years ago, when I was hiking through a forest alone, I happened upon an amphitheatre nestled in a natural bowl in the landscape. It was mere luck that guided my footsteps to the site…

The amphitheatre was ancient, centuries old. Its concentric stone benches had been worn to a velvet comfort by the gentle hands of time, and it was a euphoric experience to sit in quiet contemplation, absorbing the essences of ancient luminaries that had, I was sure, ruminated on the same seat.

An orb was cradled on a stone dais at the amphitheatre’s hub. The orb was approximately three meters in diameter, but its contours were only discernible as a subtle distortion of light. It was only at certain angles of perception that an elusive luminescence — a golden-green aura — was visible around its confines. I sensed rare perfumes seeping from the orb; exotic incenses from ethereal realms.

The orb also emitted a field; a palpable essence that rippled through the amphitheatre. The orb’s aura — the field — produced a sensation that is indescribable, indelible, and soothing, but I could advance no closer than a few meters from the orb, where a moderate, yet firm, resistance was felt (alike the force of magnetic opposition). The field was gentle, but its full power could be sensed. I endeavoured to break through the field — by anchoring my shoes in the soil and pressing enthusiastically with a shoulder — but I remained delightfully frustrated.

I sat quietly in the amphitheatre until twilight threatened and I was forced to retreat out of the forest. I removed my red tee-shirt, which I tore into strips to tie onto branches, to mark the way back.

The next day I retraced my steps, guided by the strips of cloth. A perplexing anxiety pervaded my being as I drew close to the site, as if I was about to lose something dear: but I pressed on, anticipation overcoming apprehension.

My heart sank when I entered the clearing.

There was no amphitheatre, no orb; instead, there was a dilapidated shack beside a pond that was fed by a meandering brook. Inside the shack there were signs of vagrants, rat droppings, and the poignant calling-card of skunk.

Had it been a dream, hallucination, or parallel world? There was no telling. Perhaps it was a unique experience, a gift to be appreciated, but let go, swept away with yesterday’s dust.

It had been a mistake, I decided, to try to return. I walked out of the forest, untying my rags from the trees as I went. A spiritual calm enveloped me.

I’ve never attempted to go back to the amphitheatre in the waking world, but I often visit in my dreams; and, when I do, I awake with new perspective; nothing tangible, but a feeling, an inner knowledge — a liberation— that guides me through the day.

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Buddhism and the individual

This morning a colleague stated that Buddhism is a negative religion because the Buddha did not accept, or believe in, the individual.

I’ve learned about Buddhism in a haphazard way, and am probably certainly not an expert; nonetheless, that never stops me from pretending I am…

My lay-person’s answer to my colleague was that the Buddha was familiar with the concept of the individual, but he determined that the individual is not an invariable, immortal presence: each of us is an ever-changing process that interacts with an impermanent universe. Every moment brings change; we grow, we adapt; we are fluid beings, not static entities. This is an important aspect of the First Noble Truth: we suffer because we grasp onto a moment, but there is no going back: we should enjoy each new, precious moment as it manifests, alters us, and evaporates into the past.

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To infinity, and beyond

even if the universe is, for instance, a self-contained box, wouldn’t there be something outside the box? On the other hand, how could it go on forever? Or is our universe shaped like a multidimensional Möbius strip, a Klein bottle, or some other unimaginable shape? Infinity is a concept that hurts to think about: it pushes the mind into uncharted territories.

I have no idea how others come to terms with infinity; but, when I was young, it eventually brought a meditative state; from which, random thoughts burbled up and resolved themselves in flashing images. These states led, inevitably, to the terrifying concept of death, similar, in many ways, to my difficulty with either a finite or infinite universe. I couldn’t imagine me ending (my fears began with death of family members, but eventually manifested in the ghoulish prospect of personal death: I could comprehend the death of a family member (however sad the thought made me), but I could not imagine my own death; I suppose this is a fairly common ego-centric, immature worry). I knew the theories about what happens after death — heaven, reincarnation, etcetera — but these did nothing to quell my fears: whatever occurred after death, I would cease to exist. The unique being, me, would change in some unfathomable way. Either I’d metamorphose into something else: the being I was before I was born, an angel, another being in another cycle of life, or perhaps the unique consciousness that was me, within this organic body, would be snuffed out, and my organic remains would slowly fade into the universal continuum. Fortunately, my thoughts of death also had a happy conclusion: I decided that the concept of death taught me to enjoy the life I was living: nothing else mattered, because it was uncontrollable. Every moment of the present existence should be cherished. I’m not always conscious of death’s lesson, but it is an excellent reminder when life’s twists and turns lead me down negative pathways.

And one of the confusing pathways, for me, was religion. I think religion can be a wonderful thing (and attacks on religious beliefs are, in my mind, unconscionable — terrible things have been done in the name of religion, but these things are certainly not within the canonical belief systems): bonds are formed, a community of sharing is established, and deep spiritualism can be attained through the belief systems. Nevertheless, sometimes the philosophy/psychology of religious people confuses me; for example, the other day a born-again-something-or-another explained to me that she couldn’t trust a person who didn’t believe in God because they couldn’t possess a ‘high moral fiber’. I don’t know about other people, but my morals arise from a depth that is separate from religious dogma: morality and religious belief systems are certainly related, but they are not synonymous. I behave as a moral being because it is the right way to be, not because — for example — there is the reward of an afterlife. I take complete responsibility for my behavior: morality, an offspring of spirituality (personal and societal), should be inherent in religion, but spirituality flourishes in the secular world as well. I’ve known malicious Christians and altruistic atheists — and vice-versa; it is not the religion of a person that signifies character, it is their actions.

And for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction; Newton’s famous third law: if I push a boulder, some energy is imparted into the boulder, hopefully enough to move it, if that is my objective, but the boulder’s momentum may be greater than my force and I may be pushed backward instead. Or, more correctly, a combination of the two occurs: some energy is imparted to the boulder and some reflection is pushed back at me. Emotional energy, expressed as action, evolves a greater reaction than physical energy. In mechanics, energy is conserved, but in emotions, there is no conservation: an action can propagate ad nauseam. If I yell at my daughter (it has been known to happen), there is a similar action-reaction principle to the mechanical system: some portion (probably more than intended) is absorbed by her and a reaction (guilt) is an immediate (or delayed, depending on her reaction) reaction absorbed by me. She can react by yelling back and, well, it can escalate into ridiculousness. And these actions can cause future reactions, directed at each other; or, unfortunately, at other innocents, merely as a result of a build-up of the action-reaction matrix. It’s a good thing to keep in mind when dealing with others; I try to think before acting (perhaps both my daughters would question this, but I assert the veracity).

I recall my delayed reaction to a parenting class I attended when my daughters were in elementary school (it was a course put on by the education system: my wife was quite fond of these; I, on the other hand, as a stereotypical, pig-headed male, thought they were a waste of time. In retrospect, nothing like this is a ‘waste-of-time’, but I’m not sure I got a whole lot out of it (this could, I suppose, be chalked up to attitude)). The instructor gave a parent, a Mom, a hammer and nail and asked the woman to pound the nail into a short length of two-by-four. After the nail was suitably inserted, the instructor said, “That symbolizes yelling at your child.” Then the instructor had the parent pull out the nail with the claw of the hammer: this was a bit more difficult that pounding it in, but the nail was eventually extracted. “That’s your apology,” the instructor said; “but, as you can see, the hole is still there. This is the emotional damage and it can never be filled. You can fill it with some other material, but it will never be the same.” It was a powerful metaphor, and I could see the guilt on the assembled parents’ faces (in particular, the woman who had done the hammering). And then the instructor moved on to something else, but the metaphor stuck in my head and I lost concentration; it was a powerful metaphor, but there was something wrong with it. It wasn’t until after my wife and I got home that I figured out what was bothering me (I am a slow, methodical thinker). Real people aren’t made of wood: when humans are involved, it is possible to fill in the hole. It’s challenging, but it can make relationships stronger. That is what the parenting course should have focused on. Yes, we should try to control our outbursts, but they’re going to happen, and it’s fruitless to allow guilt to cripple you; instead, work through the aftermath to resolve the issues that got you there. Be honest. Admit when you’re wrong: it doesn’t make you weak, it makes you genuine. If the breaking point was a culmination of daily frustrations, then explain that. Be open. Work through it, even if the other person doesn’t understand. You don’t control the other person, only yourself. Do the best you can, it’s all you can do. Try not to sink back into frustration, but defend your position if you feel justified: you may never get agreement and that’s okay; take satisfaction in knowing you put it all out there, left nothing hidden.

Well, I’ve been tripping almost stream-of-consciousness for quite some time: pseudo-connected ideas have been spilling out of my noodle, but it must end sometime. I just don’t know how to stop. I remember being young and wondering how the universe could end. How could there be an end;

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You

You, yourself, as much as anybody else in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection.

Buddha

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Beauty

People Magazine  announced their choice for the world’s most beautiful woman, and there is no doubt that their choice is blessed with many physical attributes that are considered beautiful.

But beauty, to me, is more than a physical construct; it is an indefinable quality that emanates from within and transcends physical ideals. Even in the most beautiful works of art there is an enigmatic characteristic that resides within, and emanates from, the work. It is not just the object itself; rather, there is a metaphysical connection to the soul of the artist: the art is a tangible representation of the beauty within the artist.

[Image credit: Joel Carillet]

And so it is with human beings. A photograph of a person is not the person, and their beauty can only be experienced by bathing in their mysterious emanations (I was once within a few-dozen feet (ten meters) of the Dalai Lama as he spoke, and that was close enough for me to decide that he was a beautiful human being).

I believe that beauty can emerge from the most unlikely places, so I make a conscious effort to focus on the beauty of my everyday world and the beauty that emanates from the people whose lives I share, whether they are my friends, colleagues, family, or a person I meet in passing. Sometimes, their beauty overwhelms me.

 

The Eightfold Path: Right Mindfulness

The Eightfold Path, Part Seven (an introduction to Buddhism…as I understand it)

Wisdom

1. Right View

2. Right Intention

Ethical Conduct

3. Right Speech

4. Right Action

5. Right Livelihood

Mental Development

6. Right Effort

7. Right Mindfulness

8. Right Concentration

 

Right mindfulness is pure awareness of the present moment; transparent perception, an awareness that penetrates our biased interpretations of reality.

Humans have a propensity to interpret with the bias of an ego-filter: an evaluation based on previous experiences. The goal of mindful perception is to live in the present moment without bias.

Meditation plays a key role in right mindfulness, and the purpose of meditation is to be fully aware in the present moment: any other goal invites the specter of dukkha (grasping, frustration, et cetera).

There are four foundations of mindfulness, which are the basis of meditation practice as taught by Shakyamuni Buddha (Maha Satipatthana Sutta):

• Contemplation of the body
• Contemplation of feelings (revulsion, attraction, neutral)
• Contemplation of the state of mind (a dispassionate observation)
• Contemplation of phenomena (dharmas: irreducible, fundamental units of experience)

No amount of effort will yield a profound result without mindfulness; it is the root of Buddhism.

 

“Breathe and you know you are alive.” Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh