Beautiful Snake

I met the second such snake today on my way out the door of my casita. It was a beautiful black and white King Snake, so named because of its habit of eating rattlesnakes and copperheads. To learn more, CLICK HERE. The last one I encountered was HUGE. Chubby and perhaps 6 feet long. I watched it from a distance for many minutes, fascinated.

I met my fellow earthling today at closer proximity. It was crossing the sidewalk behind me as I carried a load out to the car. I laughed at myself because I had been so carefully checking for the "R" word under the bushes as I was taking trash out. Like I would ever see it there.

"Snake!" I said to myself outloud. Why am I always alarmed to see a snake? It is after all, just a legless lizard. It's a sequence, I guess, from habitual ground-watching after stepping on the big "R" a few years ago, and almost getting bitten.

This snake was a beauty as was the last. I watched again for many minutes, moved by its vulnerability. It was flip-flopping all over the rocks and sidewalk until it finally found a patch of shade where the ground wasn't in the triple-digits. I could almost see its relief. Then it settled into the crack of the sidewalk looking just like a tar strip. Why do I bother looking?

Resting our Neurons

We go to a very fine resort hotel (cheap during the cusp season) to rest our neurons for a few days. I find I am hyper-sensitive to illusions and marketing ploys. Am I ruined for enjoying a theatrically manipulated escape from stress?

The spa: Orchestrated smells, decor, music, etc. Very pleasant but familiar and ritualized. I judge the spa against others I have visited. I see past the illusions to minimum wage workers (actors in the illusion) providing personal service to people. I choose not to participate in the illusion, instead chatting with the manicurist about her life. In doing so, I am less relaxed.

The spa lap pool, perfectly situated with regard to the sun, and free of romping children is warm and very relaxing. Papa and I enjoy "extreme" wallowing: back and forth from the hottub to the pool for several hours. No illusion here, just sensation. The unwinding begins in earnest.

The room: Decorated to insinuate very expensive bed chambers in a southwestern villa. I am aware of the manipulation. Why does the bath seem so much more pleasant in the presence of lovely marble and glass? I continue to observe the illusion, but then am soon absorbed in the experience of immaculately clean-smelling crisp cotton bedsheets on an excellent mattress and perfect pillows. Only a human hug feels better than this, and this alone is worth the price of admission.

We leave the patio door open to hear the sounds outside and smell the air. I consider the effort of the musicians, playing all day in 90 degrees. We hear the exhuberant whoops of many children and see families relaxing together. Papa comments that these are people enjoying their vacations that they spent days planning, months ago. We laugh. I wonder if they buy the illusion. I remember how thoroughly I did when I was younger. I am glad this is an enjoyable day for them. I am grateful for the work of the musicians.

The restaurant: Healthy fresh food, impeccably prepared, artfully seasoned. There are no illusions here. No merengue swans, or glacee'd tarts. The food is real and whole, though it violates the tenso's admonishment to serve only plain food. I savor every bite as we sit outside in the shade of an umbrella. I do more than savor- I embrace, I immerse.

This is no zen retreat, but I feel much rested and restored despite my reticence to participate in illusion. I idly wonder if there is a retreat somewhere in the world that has all of the sensory nourishments without the theater.

The Empty Eye

I am processing a study on the book THE LAST WEEK by John Dominic Crossan and Marcus Borg, about the Gospel of Mark. I am thinking about Roshi's teisho in which he said "the empty eye sees everything." This was a mind-opening teisho for me, as I understood from it the importance of seeing with an "empty-eye," in other words, with a mind free of pre-conceived notions.

What I am taking away from my study is the realization that the Gospel of Mark is about the apostles' difficulty seeing Jesus with an empty eye. They all failed, to the man. They could not move beyond the paradigm of expecting a political/military messiah- one who would be the ultimate wartime general and king. It was natural- looking at the history of the chosen people up to that time. Salvation looked to them like an invincible army.

Jesus's message was consistently to look elsewhere than the spoils of this world to see God's dream for His created. His teaching (and the message of all religions, really) is that to transcend the biological imperative, we have to look outside of the biological paradigm.

Well, the apostles didn't get it. The exegesis we have been doing has really hit home to me that the paradigms in which I live are not the road to any salvation I could long for- be it personal, communal, or global. I must seek with an empty eye.

How does this play out? I am cultivating awareness of my conditioned responses (which are the infrastructure of my paradigms). Zen has been a wonderful training for this emptying of the eye. I am consciously practicing (with faltering baby steps) a more detached response to the events of the day, struggling to see and act upon a more god-like dream for me and my earthly companions.

I am writing this to cultivate an empty eye. The writing itself is practice. I am adding these words, and these thoughts to my neuronal structure. I am following Roshi's teaching to use my brain as my tool (and not vice-versa).

Lord, Lift Them Up!

Two very precious people were injured today when their paths crossed tragically. A young boy and a wonderful, loving young woman met in an accident which sent the boy to the hospital, and introduced the young woman (who only this week had spent many hours and dollars in a veterinary hospital trying to save the life of a tiny kitten she is fostering) to the deepest sorrow of her young life.

Why do these accidents happen? There is no answer, they just do, and when they do, the love of God appears as a community of supportive people who surround the participants in such a tragedy.

I know who that community is for the young woman, and my deepest most heartfelt prayer is that the boy and his family are similarly surrounded. He has the best medical care our country has to offer. The rest of his community is all who know about his plight, and are praying that he will be lifted from his injuries to a full recovery.

Lord lift them up!

An Excellent Sewing Jag, Girl Bonding, and Kittenfest

What could be better! Immersion in a sewing jag, surrounded by seven sweet very young rescue kittens, and wonderful girl time with my daughter. The house is destroyed, one of the primary requirements of craft bonding (though I do adhere to the Artgirls Code: Everything must be restored to order before departure.) In this case, the bathroom is destroyed as well with the bouyant and resilient biology of six kittens eating, pooping, and creating royal rumbles. The seventh kitten almost didn't survive, but now occupies the position of honor in the bedroom, being to small to rumble.

Girls have a rythm of communication that is totally different than the one in play when the men are around. I think of the canning parties of old, quilting bees, etc. When men gather, they all know the rules of the engagement. Women have their own, more intimate rules, and it seems very hard to mix the two.

I'll be on the plane tomorrow returning home, satisfied, with five new garments, and a warm glow from the quiet, easy time my daughter and I have enjoyed together.

Off to Dallas

I'm off to Dallas to meet Tiny (aka Lula), the fluckiest cat alive (see http://vinceandholly.blogspot.com ), and to have a great girl time with Holly (sewing in tow). Back next week.

Slurry Gulch Three

Slurry gultch in progress. Before, during, and after. When we returned last fall, monsoon rains had washed out the rocks carefully placed by Vince the season before. This concrete gultch should hold up to the big downpour.

Stop Now

Stop now and ask yourself- What is my body doing? Are my lips pursed and tight, or are they relaxed? Are my eyes squinting? Are my hands clenched? Am I breathing deeply and evenly? Am I hungry, full, or am I comfortably sated?

I did this a while ago when I lay down to relax for a few minutes, and discovered that there were many telltale signs of stress, even though I was safely in my bedroom with nothing urgent to do. I was caught in some sort of a sequence.

Regardless of how the tension arose, there was no need for it at that moment. I consciously relaxed, so my body could tell my mind it was OK to park and let the world go by for a while. With some discipline, I stayed focused on relaxing the muscles, and sure enough, my brain followed suit.

No need to know what started the sequence. I could end it by consciously relaxing my body. So how was it with you? Were you spinning your gears? Were you caught in a sequence? If you weren't on your way to a fire, or running away from one, and your body was tense (or you had let yourself get hungry, or had eaten too much), you might have been caught in a sequence.

This is not really zen, but it IS something I learned by experience in the zendo, and have forgotten for a little while. Tuxedo the kitty reminded me of it again (read previous post).

Sequences

When you sit down to eat at Jeannie's, big tuxedo kitty sits up on his haunches and paddles the air- like a kangaroo. Brenda called it "some sort of sequence." Begging, maybe, though kitty doesn't direct the pawing at you. He seems to do it involuntarily. It is as Brenda says- a neuronal sequence.

I thought of that today when I went shopping without my purse. I had to pick out carpet samples. Didn't think I would need my purse, which is temporarily not in my possession. But the nueronal sequence of shopping is all in place about four blocks from my turn into the shopping center. And something feels very amiss because the purse is not there. I find I had to rehearse the sequence many times in my mind to feel OK about doing it without the purse.

So what? How many of my actions are mindless nueronal sequences, of which I become aware only when some element in the sequence is amiss? And if these actions are automatic, instead of willed in the moment, how many could I change, if I only became aware of the cue/s that set off the sequence? Eating right after I come in the door. Taking a quick peek at the computer as I walk from one place to another in the house. Blogging instead of going to sleep.

Habits, conditioned responses, these are the building blocks of my daily life. How would my life be different if I brought more of these under conscious control? If I made my mind work for me instead of working for my mind.

The Finger

Sometimes God reaches down and points His finger at a problem. The people then appoint a committee to study the finger. (A quote from our discussion group tonight.)

My New Love, Zeus

This is my new love, Zeus. He lives at my friend Jeannie's house, where I just spent three days. Zeus is a wonder dog. He is the most polite, friendliest, and most well-behaved dog I have ever met. Things Zeus does: Keeps you company, but never intrudes, is always thrilled to see you, but never jumps on you, joins you in the shower, so he always smells good, brings you his quacking duckie, joins you in bed, but only if invited, plays with prairie dogs through the glass door, is wonderful dinner company (his dinner)- takes a bite, looks lovingly at you, then takes another bite. It is a shame he is a dog. Otherwise, I would ask him to marry me.

Zeus is a purebred boxer, found by Jeannie. Great effort was made to find his owner, who has done a spectacular job of giving him the best manners imaginable. Now he lives with Jeannie, and brightens the day of whoever sees him.

Speaking the Truth in Love (Eph 4:15)

Speaking the truth in love may be what we need to do in our new study group at our new church. I vowed that I will be all of my real self in any new church experience we undertake, so have chosen a church were acceptance of this is promised.

We were in a wonderful study group last Thursday. Many great, deep laughs, and lots of good sharing. This is a very liberal church, very committed to openness, acceptance, etc. In the discussion, the Book of Revelation came up, negatively of course.

The next thing that came up was the "Left Behind" series by Tim LaHaye. Not my cup of tea, to be sure, but very much the cup of tea of my partner. This accepting group suddenly found itself wallowing around in luxurient contempt of both Revelation and the LaHaye series. I say luxurient, because all were thoroughly enjoying the bonding of scorning the same thing.

All, except Papa, who was gracious in the face of this, to his credit. It was a true "us and them" moment, the very thing they were vowing not to do. I feel that this will become a "speaking the truth in love" moment for me. Either we will be open and accepting to all, or we will not be calling ourselves open and accepting, is what I have to say.

This will be a test for me, because I am not good at making confrontations gracefully. But, what can't happen is that Papa and I, in turn, talk about this experience behind the backs of those who created it, which is where we are now. These kinds of growth opportunities are one reason not to spend one's entire spiritual practice in silence.

My First Paperclay Adventure

OK, well, I am ready to roll up my sleeves and make some paperclay. Have done it before, actually many times, but this time, I am following Graham Hay's suggestion to use newspaper because it doesn't break down fast the way toilet paper is meant to do. Theoretically, these paper fibers last longer in the clay. Better still, old phone book paper- thinner paper, but still not processed to break down in water.

So I use a shredder, make a trashbag full of paper spaghetti, then soak it in hot water as prescribed. Now I have a trashcan of paper spaghetti in a lot of water, and I rev up Papa's ass-kicking hammer drill with the heavy duty, double-bladed paint mixer attached, and I go for it. "Beat those paper fibers," as Graham says.

In less than 10 seconds, the entire bucket of water rises wildly up six feet- out of the trashcan, on to my porch, me, and everything within six feet of me and my industrial strength drill. I am screaming, I shut off the drill, and try to figure out what the heck happened. (Like I said, I have done this many times before, but never with newspaper).

I pull out the drill and see that those pieces of paper spaghetti have wrapped themselves around the beaters into a basketball-sized wad which is, of course, what sent all of the water out of the trashcan. I am dripping wet with strips of paper hanging off of me like grey tinsel on a Christmas tree. Shreds are everywhere, and I am laughing hysterically all by myself, sorry only that there was no one there to appreciate this mayhem with me. Back to toilet paper, and let others be forewarned.