I've been away... But doing good stuff. I hope you'll come find me at my other places. Currently, those are:

Life. Love. Food. - All about real food, real life, and leaving the industrial food complex behind.

Cornucopia Press - My new small press. Immerse yourself in historical fiction.

Hope you'll come visit, and leave a comment or two. Especially at LifeLoveFood. You'll like that one. :)

Our car died, and we decided to try living without one. It's been interesting. Lots of things are harder, but not so hard we can't manage, generally. Being sick is harder, for sure.

But one thing I notice is that I get to experience the world more directly from a bike. In a car, you're insulated from the world, and from what you're doing. You can let your mind wander, forget that you're driving.

But on a bike, you're sort of automatically mindful. You're right there where the road or path is. You feel the rain on your face. You see the small things. It's a great way to be here, now.

Did you ever wonder why you'll run across a spiritual teacher who clearly has genuine insight, and then as you get to know them you'll find attachments and judgements that are almost shocking? I don't know about you, but I've even wondered that about myself. I "get it," and yet I find myself judging, becoming angry, defensive, being attached to crazy stuff. Why? Am I just expecting too much?

I was reading Robert Aiken recently, and found something that really gave me an "ah ha!" He was talking about a popular spiritual teacher, who he didn't name. He said

His writings sparkle with genuine insight, yet something is awry... What went wrong here? I think he chose a short cut to teaching. My impression is that he underwent a genuine religious experience, but missed the vital, step-by-step training which in Zen Buddhist tradition comes after realization.

It makes so much sense! And now I'm remembering my karate teacher saying that the black belt means that you're now ready to start training. Same idea, huh?

I was sitting zazen the other day, and an image came to mind. Actually, it was more like a whole story, but it only lasted a second, I swear! :-)

Anyway, I was thinking of a piano player who'd been playing by ear for years, and doing fine. She'd created beautiful music by listening to and studying much more serious musicians (like Beethoven, Scott Joplin and Billy Joel). Then, after a few decades of this, she realized that something was missing, that maybe she had something really *important* yet to learn. And that day, she started doing scales, for the first time in her life.

That's what I thought. It's like doing scales. Boring, and vital.

In the morning, at the zendo, after zazen there is zendo cleaning and then a formal breakfast. There is a formal aspect to the meal, but it's not silent. That is, we engage in pleasant conversation while we eat.

I asked the priest, "Is it ok for me to ask a dharma question over breakfast?" "Sure," he says. "I was just wondering, what does 'emptiness' mean?" There was laughter, because it was a pretty big question for breakfast. But really, I'd been asking specifically about a part of the breakfast chants, which includes "the emptiness of the three wheels, giver, receiver and gift."

The emptiness, in this case, refers to the empty place where our discerning thoughts used to be. Giver, receiver, and gift: all are one. The distinctions between them are void, or non-existent. At least, that's my understanding. What do I know?

Mostly, though, the emptiness is in my head. Since I posted the last entry, about sitting down and shutting up, I have been awfully quiet. It's been hard to think of any words to say.

I have heard people tell me that they don't want to study Karate (or any martial art) because, they say, it's not practical, or it's too structured, too choreographed to be worthwhile. I've even heard students complain that endless punches and blocks will not help them to become... whatever it is they hope to become.

But what I've noticed is that the sempai at our dojo are amazing people. If they got to be the way they are by doing ten thousand middle punches, then I will do ten thousand middle punches. It's pretty simple.

So why is it that when it comes to Zen Buddhism, I whine, just like these folks who reject martial arts?

See, I don't think Buddhism is a very good idea. There are plenty of reasons. Westerners, I tell myself, can't really be Buddhist. We can only be Wanna-be-Buddhists. And there are all sorts of philosophical problems with non-attachment. And what's wrong with dualism? You can't have A and not-A, right? All that stuff about ancestors, yuck. And while I have ideas about The God-Force That Is Love, and All That Is, when people start talking specifics I quickly begin looking like an atheist. "Lord Buddha," indeed. Harumph.

For years (and I mean years) I've been picking bits and pieces, reading great masters, and telling myself, I guess, that it's just sheer luck that these teachers are so dang wise.

What's finally sinking in is that these folks have something figured out. I'm not saying they're perfect, but when I look at the people who do call themselves Buddhist, I think that maybe, whatever my monkey-mind has to say, I could stand to learn a thing or two. I think that they're clearing a pretty nice path, and maybe I should drop my machete and follow them instead.

So while I'm not quite ready to call myself a Buddhist, I think I am ready to shut up and sit. Close the door, will you?

People need unconditional love. I instantly recognized the truth of that idea when I ran across the work of Carl Rogers in college.  But that creates a dilemma for me.

Either it's actually possible to love unconditionally, or it's not. If it's not, then something is required for the full expression of humanity that we simply cannot have, and that would mean that life is ultimately tragic. I can talk more about how I managed to rid myself of existential angst later. For now, just: No. I can not accept that the universe is set up that way.

So, then, it has to be possible.

Thinking of this led me to an awareness I think I really needed. I have been trying to learn to put the truths I see into words, as wonderful teachers I love do so well. I've been really pushing in that direction, pushing the way you try to push water, or push a rope. Pushing. I want to be able to share these ideas with people I love--ideas like non-judgement and oneness. Surely, being able to write well about them is my calling. It's what I'm here to do.

But thinking about this, about Carl Rogers and unconditional love, I realized--no, I remembered--what it is I am actually doing. I don't know how I ever forgot.

My purpose here is to love unconditionally. Not to write brilliant essays or books, not to become something in particular. Loving unconditionally is the only thing I need to learn, the only thing that matters.

I'm liking Jesus better all the time. At least, I'm liking the Jesus that's forming in my mind. Once I got a clear understanding of love...

It's what holds everything together, and it's the everything too!     -- Rumi

...I began to have an easier time seeing the light in stories about Jesus. Especially the stories in the Gospel of Thomas.

It is I who am the light which is above them all. It is I who am the all. From me did the all come forth, and unto me did the all extend. Split a piece of wood, and I am there. Lift up the stone, and you will find me there.

-- Jesus, according to the Gospel of Thomas

I'm thinking about this now, because a couple of guys sat near me at the coffee shop this morning, and it turned out they were a local preacher and a travelling missionary. They wanted to know if I'm a believer. Wow. How do I answer a question like that?

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and decided to tell them the truth, as best I could. Turned out my best wasn't quite right. I said "Yes, I'm a believer, but I'm not a Christian." At one point, I added, "I'm liking Jesus better all the time." But still, they couldn't really hear me, or engage in a conversation.

Once they left, I put some thought toward how hard it was to communicate with these men. I think that both my authenticity and their comprehension were compromised by the demon that hung in the air between us. That demon was the construct they carry around, the belief they hold in hell, and in permanent separation from divine love.

I am almost looking forward to the next time I find myself in a conversation like this. Maybe I'll have learned something? Maybe I'll even be able to outshine them, as I tell them what I really think about God's love. Maybe they'll feel it. Maybe.

I am trying to really get it. I know--we all know, by now--that our intention is very powerful. All we have to do is focus, pay attention, and anything we choose is ours. But there's the problem: what do we choose?

I've talked to folks who've just been exposed to ideas like the ones in "the secret" (ideas that have been around for a long time, by the way). They begin to look for things they can manifest. "Oooh! What should I get? A girlfriend? A car? A million dollars? The possibilities are endless!"

But there's a catch. You really have to want it. You have to really want it.

So, sure, it can work. If you can convince yourself that your highest vision of who you are is "a hot chick driving a cool car" you will manifest that. If your vision is of a writer who's sold a million copies, made a million bucks, you'll manifest that.

But what happens to those of us who can't really believe, in our hearts, that our highest vision looks like that? We wander around wondering why, even though we believe this stuff, even though we know it, we can't seem to make anything happen.

I've worked on learning to live in abundance for years now. I'm still working on it. What I've noticed is that taping a note to my ceiling, or to my bathroom mirror, or chanting mantras about abundance--these things don't make the difference. They don't, because no matter how many of those things I try, my highest priorities don't involve money. And what I've learned is that you can only manifest your highest priorities.

Those highest priorities, your highest vision of yourself, are going to be different for everyone. To find yours, think about what you'd like people to say about you. If you want your tombstone to say "She drove an awesome car," you're well on your way to manifesting that vision. But if that doesn't sound right to you, maybe it's time to put yoru energies toward something different.

I have discovered (finally!) that my highest vision for myself is pretty simple. It's to remember myself as a spark of the divine fire. To speak to the heart. To choose love over fear.

Now that I'm beginning to get used to manifesting these things, I'm getting the sense that another vision is forming: I'm a spark of the divine fire, speaking to the heart, choosing love over fear, and I have all I need. Now that's a vision I can get behind!

A few months ago, I wrote what may turn out to be my last poem. There's a part of me that that would love to put together more words, this time to tell you how we are one, how you and I are a universe, all by ourselves, a singularity that split itself in two in order to experience tango. How it isn't only you and I that make up a universe, but you and her, me and him, as many combinations (or permutations) as you can imagine, and more, because there are enough dimensions that we can each hold hands with everyone at once.

But I keep thinking that the truth is bigger than anything that can be captured, not just by me, but even by great artists, even by Madeline L’Engle or Ursula K. Le Guin. I once loved their stories, yet now it seems like fiction and poetry are distractions, spoonsful of sugar to make a materialist, world-bound life tolerable.

I have to agree with Daniel Pinchbeck, who says that “most contemporary fiction, like most current film, has an increasingly retrograde quality.” It’s evidence of our past, like old high-heeled shoes, left over from before we realized we deserve better. It’s time to let go of our tendency toward “inciting and then placating the desires and fears of the individual ego.”