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NaPoWriMo Day 3: A Descent Into Silly

IMG_0086Back to my original plan of dabbling in forms, rhymes, rhythms, poetics.

While an appreciator of limericks, I–quite simply–suck at them. I can never get the saucy air, the lilt that carries the reader along line to line hanging off the side of the horse, as it were. But I need to write one so let’s see what nastiness ensues. Since this blog is generally dealing with meditation, Qi, Taoist themes, I’m going for a very nonliteral Buddhist limerick.

 

There once was a young monk from Jaipur

With robes such bright orange you would die for.

        But they needed a clean

        And while in the machine

Turned so pink, he was now just an eyesore.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Kuan Yin: Beyond Human

The Subject As A Younger Boy

The Subject As A Younger Boy

He’s lying in the sun, breath heavy and fast, sides shrunken, bones of the chest and neck showing through the skin, backs of the ears and the toes almost hairless now. Just an old cat suffering from age and pain and a host of ailments. “Just put him down,” people tell me especially after they hear I have to clean up his feces several times a day and live with puppy training pads on my bedroom floor because that’s the only way to keep him from urinating on the carpet.

Only one room still has carpet, in fact. He ruined all the rest so we’ve replaced it with hardwood, an oddly beautiful gift he’s given me through his feline dementia. And he still climbs onto my lap while I write, sleeps by my side at night, meets me at the door with his companion cat, who doesn’t understand why there are no wrestling matches every day.

My husband would be relieved to see him go–as I would be much of the time–but has come to understand and accept why we go on with him: not because I can’t bear to part with him but because he still has a pure enjoyment in much of life. I feel I need to respect and support that in an old cat no less than I would in any person.

Yesterday, I bought a new scratch pad laced with cat nip (which I’ve been referring to as “medical cat nip”) and he scratched and rolled and rubbed his cheek on it, then plowed through a bowl of cat food to satisfy the “munchies.” And as we ate dinner, this old arthritic boy came barreling down the hall top speed, startling his companion, and stretching his paws up onto the cat perch. This is not a cat ready to “go gently.” And I feel I need to respect that as well.

We don’t go to extraordinary measures to keep him alive. He’s off almost all medication because the drugs for one illness just make another worse. And he gets to eat the cheap grocery store cat food he loves rather than the “special diet” that is supposed to make him feel better. He’s in hospice with us. We just want to give him comfort.

I will respect his right to die when his quality of life degrades or he is in pain. But I will also respect and show compassion for his delight in life until then, this old, skinny, balding orange tiger. Even as I clean up his latest gift.

“Nothing Special”

Snow on Mountain

“I have been there and come back.

It was nothing special:

The river at high tide,

The mountain veiled by misty rain”

                                                                        Zen Buddhist saying

Beauty returns most fully when I stop looking for something higher. When the remaining grey snow piles blink at me as if to say “what are we still doing here on March 28?,” I hesitate in my gnarling about their ugliness and see they are as at sea as I. And the two cranes that flew over my car as I tried to hustle home on the always-too-crowded and frighteningly fast highway reminded me to breathe, reminded me that their path might be straighter and less crowded but their return home no less important.

In the study of Qi Gong and the Tao, I have never felt even close to knowledgeable, so I deftly if dumbly escaped thinking of myself as a “Great Expert,” as Ken Cohen refers to the first stage of learning–that in which you know a little so, therefore, you feel you know it all. I skipped straight to “Banana Head,” that phase where you realize that, as he says, “knowledge is limitless and human life is limited.” I know I don’t know.

What I have started to feel are moments within my ignorance, that I begin to catch sight out of the corner of an eye, tiny glinting sparks of the final stage of learning, the stage where all nature is once again part of you and you, part of nature, so that all entwines and all becomes so special that it is “nothing special.”

May I never reach that stage fully for I know I would then be a “Great Expert” and I might not see the inch long tree frogs under the birdbath who are so special that they are “nothing special.”

So, A Buddhist and A Taoist Walk Into A Bar…

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I often write about Buddhist ideas and refer to authors and Buddhist scholars like Jack Kornfield but I have to admit I’m just not a nice enough person to be a Buddhist. Really. Quietly and patiently putting up with jive? I think not. Sitting quietly under the bodhi tree awaiting enlightenment like the bodhidarma? Ain’t gonna happen.

Which is why I’m so much more drawn to Taoism. As a Taoist, my indignation at social injustice can feel fully legit, my tendency to meet the bs of the world with smiling snark just a part of living all experience fully–but not to excess–as taoists would.

One of my favorite stories is one told by Ken Cohen about the difference between Buddhists, confucionists, and taoists:
3 people, one of each philosophy, are sitting on a bench, the Taoist in the middle. A soldier approaches. The Confucionist begins to rise but the soldier growls roughly “sit down.” And because Confucianism prizes social order and respect for governance, he sits. Then the Buddhist begins to rise and the soldier once again snarls “sit.” And the Buddhist, believing in being peaceful and not stirring up trouble if it can be avoided thinks, “what the heck. Not worth disturbing peace. Accept what is” and sits. The the Taoist stands and when the soldier barks “Sit. Sit.” the Taoist, feeling that the soldier is being arbitrary and mean just to show off his power does not sit. Instead, she continues to stand and reaches over to each side and gently helps the Confucionist and the Buddhist to their feet, knowing that sometimes acting for social justice in the face of tyranny is more important than peace and good behavior.

“There is my way and there is your way and there is The Way,” Lao Tzu

More Qi for the Cheese State!

I’m raising money through Indiegogo for the formation of The Qi Gong Center of South Central Wisconsin. It’s a very small campaign and donations of even $1.00 make me not only happy but positively delirious. I’d love to spread the health and meditative benefits of Qi Gong throughout the area (and beyond, if possible). You can find the campaign at http://igg.me/at/QiGongSCW/x/2582175 . So, spread the word if you could through your own blogs and facebook pages. Thank you, thank you. IMG_0086

When The Cushion Doesn’t Call

Meditating CatWhen the zabuton is stretched out on the floor, the zafu cushion sitting atop, Mario comes in and takes his place, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. At times, he will stay for an hour or more seeming barely to move, content as a cat. Of course, Mario has an advantage in this: Mario is a cat.

Despite knowing that not much ever passes through his brain to distract him from the now, I envy him. Perhaps not “envy.” That suggests ill will which I certainly don’t feel: rather I wish I could channel his ability to stay in the present. Because I, instead, find the “now” almost indecipherable and indistinguishable from the “yesterday,” “tomorrow,” and “forty years ago when I didn’t get invited to the prom.”

Although I love meditation time and my retreat from work and the world, I love it only sporadically. The rest of the time, it’s a struggle and sometimes even a bore. Days go by when I walk into my meditation room–which doubles as computer room–and instead of lighting incense and settling onto the cushion, I slop into the computer chair and meditate only on whether moving the Queen of Spades will give me a win in Solitaire. This I can do for hours.

Boredom leads to frustration which leads to guilt which leads to “Why the hell did I ever think I could meditate, anyway?” And so the cushion sits for days used only by Mario while I try to ignore its presence. Then one day, I’ll walk in the room, laugh at my own presumption as the thought changes to “Who the hell am I to think I can’t meditate? How much better than the Buddha do I think I am? Why, he could beat me at Solitaire, too, I bet.”

Back to the cushion I go, not displacing Mario but joining him and if I start to feel, as I inevitably will at some time, boredom or restlessness, I remember what Jack Kornfield said about naming the feeling and then “If you feel you’re so restless , you could die, well, just go ahead and do it! Look to the sky and say ‘Just take me now I’m so bored.’. . . And then go back to the breath.”