Buddha Speaks to Bad Mom [yoga-inspired musings]

December 4 – Wonder. How did you cultivate a sense of wonder in your life this year?

My answer: YOGA!

In fact, I just went to yoga with my son for the first time this morning! He's been watching me stretch at home and mimicking me, so I thought it was time. I found this wonderful studio near my house called Karma Yoga, and so we went.

At the end of my class, I heard Titus (in the other room) say "I'm hungry!" I suddenly felt anxious, tightly drawn, like I should hurry up and get out of my dead-corpse pose and back to the real "business" of my day.

But because I'd had such a good teacher, who'd helped me relax so fully, I was in a patient place. I could have reactions but also observe them, and I realized that my reaction was strangely based in some sense that Titus was making an accusation. "Why haven't you fed me?! Why didn't you bring me a snack?" i.e., Why are you a bad mommy. I laughed outloud, shirking my misreading of what was just his honest expression of a feeling. I realized i was projecting my own fears that I might mess things up, not provide for him adequately, etc.

How beautiful that he has a working body with which to FEEL hunger! How beautiful that i have every ability to meet his needs! I felt such relaxation, such joy, and I was able to see him more clearly for what he is: a willful but sweet little boy who isn't afraid to express himself.

Laying there on my mat, I thought of my mother. i remembered how I usually spend this moment blaming her for my fear of criticism, thinking of how critical she was. Instead of having that feeling, though, I had compassion for her. I thought about why she might've been so critical. If I could so massively misread my son, what was she hearing instead of hearing me?

How often do we only hear others through our own projected fears? What a wonderful thing to see through the veil sometime!

As we stood in the vestibule, putting our shoes back on, Titus asked me, "Who's that?" pointing at a statue of Buddha. The statue had a water effect, and a little light burbling in the center of a water effect, at Buddha's heart. I said, without thinking, "that's Jesus's friend, Buddha, like in the song, 'Oh Jesus, I love you, and I love Buddha, too.'" You see, my son has been attending a Christian daycare, and as a wayward agnostic who laughs along when the more diligent atheists mention the "flying spaghetti monster," I have my concerns about his learning concepts I cannot agree with: only one path to God, only one face of God, judgement of others. The song "Oh, Jesus I love you, and I love Buddha, too" is such a beautiful expression of faith. Because it honors all paths, I've been drawn to it and sing it with Titus often, even though I supposedly lack this thing called faith. Why then, do I talk freely about "walking my path"? Isn't that a matter of faith?

Reflecting on the lyics of that song, there in karma yoga's vestibule, the veil lifted further. More projection was revealed. My fears for my son have nothing to do with genuine concern for his well-being. I don't need to fear for him in this way. My fears have more to do with my own past experience in churches that talked about hellfire and brimstone as often as the compassion and glory of letting go, letting God. The churches, and some of the believers I encountered in my own childhood, had hate for (fear of) difference, and used religion as a way to wield power through judgement (fear of loss of control, rooted in the economic legacy of my family and region).

It became clearer to me than ever that Jesus has nothing to do with THOSE projected fears, either! Jesus and Buddha really ARE friends! They both can serve as signposts on all of our ways. The song doesn't say, "BUT I love Buddha, too." That fact seems so much more significant to me now than it had before. Choosing to say "and," instead of "but" shows that there's no judgement there, no argument against Christianity. Just an addition. The possibility of connection, not contradiction.

My southern Baptist mother's dying wish had been that I be saved. She had the preacher actually do an "altar call" at her funeral, which is quite unusual. I don't know what "saved" is if not the attempt to see through the veil, this embracing of others for what they really are and loving them, loving ourselves.

Funny thing, veils, when one is lifted, others may also lift. I realized over the period of the next few moments that this was all my southern Baptist mother ever wanted for me: this sense of joyful letting go, this release. I'll never know how often, if ever, she got it, but at least now I know what she was reaching for. During the last few years of her life, her faith deepened, she became calmer, less critical. I have a new respect for her journey, and less concern for the specific name she used for the signposts along her way.

I feel that I carry her with me as I walk, as I run, as I work and play. I like to envision her in Jesus's arms, quite literally now, without "enlightened" agnostic irony. I am grateful for her bringing me here, into this numinous world, this realm where my mind and body cup my spirit, like that little burbling light at the heart of the Buddha statue. And now, when I sing that song with Titus, I can mean the first few words, not just appreciate his intelligent vocabulary. I want to tell my mother, wherever she is, that I have indeed been saved, by ecstatically dancing, by meditating, by always trying to lift the veils.

Last thought on the matter: on the radio later this same day, I heard a Christian Republican senator from South Carolina being interviewed on NPR. He is outgoing, of course, due to all this Tea Party crap, due to his more nuanced understanding and gentle sophistication. I heard the compassion and wisdom in the man's voice. He has always been out of step with his fellow Republicans on the climate change issue. He said that his God told him to be a steward of the Earth, and that he thought we ought to do so. He compared God's people to children. Every time they learn something new, we cheer for them. Their first steps, sentences, etc. He thinks God feels this way about us, happy for our growth, wanting us to use our tools and minds to peek into the divinity of creation. He wouldn't have given us science if he didn't want us to use it, he said.

Another way we try to lift the veil, to see through our own ignorance. Just like religion, science can be misused. But why focus on the misuses? Let's play the believing game and see where we can all go, together, walking our path, holding each other up as we go. I've got you if you've got me.

Oh Jesus, I love You

And I love Buddha too
Ramakrishna, Guru Dev
Tao Te Ching and Mohammed

Why do some people say
That there is just one way
To love You, God, and come to You?
We are all a part of You

You are un-nameable
You are unknowable
All we have is metaphor
That's what time and space are for

Is the universe Your thought?
You are and You are not
You are many, You are one
Ever ending, just begun

Alright, alright, alright
I love You and Buddha too

running down that hill [running-inspired musings]

Blogging from the Reverb 10 prompts again!

December 3 – Moment. Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors).

I feel "most alive" most every day. A trusted professor/friend once said to us, "Life can't go boom every goddamned day!" I agree with him, but I also don't think feeling alive is all about the "booms." I'm certain you can feel "alive" every day, if only for a few moments. If we're defining alive not only as an exuberant whooping YES!!!NESS, but also as a calm savored swallowing of the joy at the back of one's throat. In fact, letting go of needing the "booms" (award, orgasm, whatever, product, product) is what can give us this alive feeling more often! And here I see a theme emerging in my recent blogging activity: process vs. product.

One process I've been engaged in this year is running, learning to run. On Thanksgiving Day, I went up to Boulder with my running mentor and before we cooked and feasted, we went for a bonafide trail run with two other, somewhat competitive runners. All runners were supportive of me, positive of my small step forward in my training and overall health. Every time I made it up what must have been a ludicrously small hill (to them), they cheered for me. They cheered, too, during the one downhill I did.

After the downhill, the other runners seemed impressed with my performance, calling me a veritable mountain goat. In fact, during it, one runner's voice, muffled by the intense crosswind, "wow, look at her take that hill!" I was honestly confused as to why she'd be so flattering. After all, I was only doing what came naturally, working with what was given, lightening my step even as gravity centered me, landing the solid pockets instead of the crumbly ones. Even as loose pebbles pressed at my soles, shifting where they should be solid, my feet seemed to know what to do. There they were, bounding and not caring, immersed in the insanity of being out there at all on such a cold day.

If only my mind could ever attain the perfect clarity of my feet that day, as they ignored my whining quads and wind-bitten cheeks, in total obeisance to their one and only gravity-influenced charge: move! Move NOW or fall! I remember such exhilaration as I picked my way down that hill. Such YES!!!NESS.

The moment I want to tell you about isn't that one, though.

It's this one: at the bottom of the hill, leaving all that behind me, the rest of the run just beginning to go on.

writer's block [musings on time, not having enough of it, and other excuses]

Today's prompt from Reverb:
December 2 Writing. What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it?

You all should see my schedule book. My best friends, my students, my colleagues, have often commented upon my amazing organization. Ha! I refer you to Derrida's concept of "differance," which, in my perhaps foreshortened understanding, indicates that the presence of a thing implies its opposite. Take the 7 Deadly Sins for example. Why would we need such a highly rigorous classification system for sin if sin weren't so messy? If I were actually organized, would I be casting a glance at a calendar with 3 layers of sticky notes on it, some of which cross-reference the other sticky notes?

I schedule every moment of my time, which is a sure sign I don't have enough of it. Or at least that I don't feel that I do. Speaking of signs, I have an anal retentive one outside my office door which says, well, forget what it says, because it's just euphemistic for "if I'm not required to pay attention to you right now, go away!" Another indication of not having enough time.

But is this true? When I think of some of the things I manage to accomplish (which is quite a lot, actually) I realize I'm making excuses. The truth: I don't have an intrinsic desire to write regularly, so I don't.

Part of me hopes I'll be like Grandma Moses. In my 70s, novels will just flow out of me like snot from my 3 yo's nose. No, I suspect that like many things in my life, I want to HAVE WRITTEN, not to write. [I.e., I want to have learned to speak Italian, not to engage in the process of learning it.]

There are precious few things I enjoy the process of, without looking for a product: teaching, making ceramics, making love, traveling, dancing, cooking. Wait, that's not a precious few. That's a LOT!

My ex-husband told me once that my life was my art. Himself having already written 2 novels when he said this, I thought he was softening the blow of my inferiority. Or trying to get me back. Now I see what he said for the truth it contained. My life is my art. I am composing myself as I go, and as long as I engage in that writing process, I can be satisfied.

Of course, Derrida (and careful readers) would point out that my excessive use of italics above to indicate sincerity most likely indicates the lack of it.

an office of her own [the move to Denver, beginning this blog to do the "REVERB" writing challenge, which I obvi failed to finish]

At the request of a colleague and friend, I'm participating in:

#REVERB10

The idea: respond to a prompt every day, in order to help you reflect on the past year and manifest for the next one.

Today's prompt:

December 1 One Word.
Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you?

My word is "working."

Here's why. In 2009, after 3 years of 20+ interviews in the overly glutted market of the Bay Area, I moved to Denver for the ever-coveted full-time college teaching gig. I landed at a wonderful little school in the area, full of open-hearted, dedicated, brilliant people. For the first time in my employed life, I will receive a W-2 from only one employer. Every single day that I go to work, I experience a deep joy and appreciation. Mostly, though, I'm not thinking about the ease of only one W-2 or the wonderful coworkers. Mostly, I'm just grateful for something quite material, perhaps overly specific and not too dignified to admit.

God, I love my office. For this little square area I get to call all my own. Adorned with my friends' artwork. The collage box Margaret made, the endless photos by Amber. At my office, they surround me and I am near to them, though they are far away. I love the cozy little table, and the intimacy it encourages. Where just today I discussed the idea of eye gazing (as it appears in his research essay on love), and there we were, my student and I, in this cutely awkward moment, both overly conscious of our eyes meeting or not meeting.

Of course, it ain't perfect. The damn heavy, track-set door sticks. Often the lock breaks. A bolt is missing from the handle. Those quirks aside: a room of her own. I've finally got mine.

I have so many memories already associated with this space.

-First day on the job, spying a piece of art about to be thrown away in the basement, asking if I could save it, and then the darling custodian, Jack, offering to hang it for me. [I am relatively certain that I did not consciously bat my eyelashes to achieve this offer, but when your Aunt Evelyn teaches you how to do that at the age of 11, you can't exactly turn it off, now can you?]

-Last day on the job Spring, '10, the conclusion of my first full year, after receiving a solid evaluation from my supervisor, and deciding to pump my Emancipator Pandora station and host a dance party of one (with an occasional second person joining in).

I love that my memories of the space reflect what I strive for as the best manifestation of my self: someone who can go after what she wants, enjoy it once she gets it, and give something worth having to others in the process. That's been my intention for 2010, and so far, it's working for me.

Other notable reasons I chose "working": I have been working hard to further my emotional growth, focusing specifically on one key concept, "it ain't always about me." This does not just refer to the idea that I shouldn't be so selfish, but that people's negative comments or actions don't usually have much to do with me, but are more often a sign of where they're at and what they're going through. The phrase reminds me to have empathy and compassion. I am also working to be the best mother I can be and the best romantic partner I can be and the best friend I can be. At its best, the work feels like play. At its worst, well, I feel I should be getting paid overtime.

Next year's word... hm, this part feels odd. I don't want to have an expectation (another thing I'm working on). My first instinct was to type: fruition, as in reaping what I've sown, but you know, I think those two are inseparable. I'm reaping what I sow in real time, right now, even as I type and you read this.