Cultivating Knowledge

A sculpture in Chicago a few years back

Neighborly Strawberry Bread for Old Friends

Strawberry Nut Bread

1 cup butter, softened
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. vanilla
1/4 tsp. lemon extract (I use Gran Marnier, instead)
4 eggs
3 cups flour, sifted
1 tsp. cream of tartar
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1 cup strawberry jam
1/2 cup sour cream
1 cup chopped walnuts (optional)

Preheat oven to 350. In mixing bowl, cream butter, sugar, vanilla and lemon extract until fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time, mixing well after each addition. Sift together flour, salt, cream of tartar and baking soda. Combine jam and sour cream. Add jam mixture alternately with dry ingredients to creamed mixture, beating until well combined. Stir in nuts. Divide among five greased and floured 4 1/2 x 2 3/4 x 2 1/4 loaf pans (or just two regular loaf pans). Bake in 350 degree oven for 50-55 minutes. Cool 10 minutes in pans. Remove from pans and cool completely on wire racks. Freezes well.

Staying Still

Better than one hundred years lived
With an unsettled mind,
Devoid of insight,
Is one day lived
With insight and absorbed in meditation.
(from The Dhammapada).

A Poem for Tuesday

Wandering Around An Albuquerque Airport Terminal
by Naomi Shihab Nye

After learning my flight was detained 4 hours, I heard the announcement: If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately.

Well — one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there. An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly. Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her problem? We told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she did this.

I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly. Shu dow-a, shu-biduck
habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick, sho bit se-wee? The minute she heard any words she knew — however poorly used – she stopped crying. She thought our flight had been cancelled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the following day. I said, No, no, we're fine, you'll get there, just late, who is picking you up? Let's call him and tell him.

We called her son and I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and would ride next to her. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out, of course, they had ten shared friends. Then I thought, just for the heck of it, why not call some Palestinian poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours. She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering questions.

She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies — little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts — out of her bag — and was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California, the lovely woman from Laredo — we were all covered with the same powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.

And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers —
non-alcoholic — and the two little girls for our flight, one African-American,
one Mexican-American — ran around serving us all apple juice and lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar, too.

And I noticed my new best friend — by now we were holding hands — had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing, with green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, This is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in this gate — once the crying of confusion stopped — has seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too. This can still happen, anywhere.

Not everything is lost.

Monkey Mind

The toxins multiply
For the insolent and negligent
Who reject what they should do
And do instead what they should not.
But the toxins come to an end
For those who are mindful and alert,
Who are constantly well-engaged
With mindfulness of the body,
Who don't resort to what they should not do
But persist in doing what they should.
(The Dhammapada, Gil Fronsdal's translation)

With the beginning of the new year, accompanied by the cold weather, resulting in more time inside, I find myself struggling with mindfulness. The passage above settles into my centeredness, reminding me that choice is part of the path. I abide by the perception that nothing is dichotomous...that I am always on the path; one cannot be "off the path." The path includes rocky terrain, and smooth warm sand, cool grass...just as in a race, one may be at times in the front and other times at the aid station. But one is never not in the race. And finishing first is not my goal--my goal is to be fully engaged and aware of the experience.

I am allowing my distractions some room on the path, but they will not deter my enlightenment.

Being on the path

Hagen writes, "Wouldn't it be great if I could create this or do that or avoid those?...our basic problem is our preoccupation with pleasing and protecting ourselves."

As the Michigan winter continues with its gray, frigid, windy presence, my friends all around wish for warmer weather, different climates, sandy beaches...anything other than what we have (and have had for 6 weeks and will continue to have for at least 2 more months!). Taking a stroll out of my West Village office, around the corner to Chelsea Piers was a great experience; I'm fond of that memory and of the photo that prefaces this post. But today I have the present. Indeed, every moment I only have the present...and then it is gone, replaced by a new present moment.

In Sangha this past Sunday the passage I've quoted above got quite a bit of airplay. We discussed how our actions, feelings, fears, hopes, and perceived expectations of others often lead us to please or self-protect. We also discussed our perceptions of "being on the path." But are we ever not on the path?

This moment is my path, and my actions at this moment are my practice. The path is infinite--without beginning and without end--without parameters. My path has a broad shoulder, some rocky terrain, some peaceful shade trees, and even some lovely city lawns near the water where I can repose. My path is everpresent--it is only my delusions that can allow me to imagine that I have left the path.

What does your path look like? Are you in rocky terrain or on a lovely sandy path toward cool water? What is your practice today? Is your practice embracing the chair your sitting in while you read this? The coffee or tea you're enjoying? Or is your practice dancing with fear or imagined catastrophes? Be with your practice and on your path.

The Itch in Your Mind: More Thoughts on Steve Hagen

Hagen writes that we often seek enlightenment to escape delusion. I am often aware of my own difficulties with embracing tranquility. If enlightenment includes a state of tranquility, have we not been, at least those of us in Western countries, strongly discouraged from being tranquil and therefore, perhaps from being enlightened?

When I choose to write, or sit, or do any one thing, my mind flits from option to option. I feel compelled to make lists, set goals, and accrue accomplishments. I have moments of repose, but they often seem like activities on the list that can be checked off.

Pema Chodron wrote, "Even the simplest of things can be the basis of practice--a beautiful morning, a good meal, a shower." After listening to a Zencast, I accepted the reality that our actions are our practice. We do not go about life, then go about our practice--they are one in the same--inseparable. That, it seems is the essence of integrity. And, because we are all interconnected, my practice is an element of yours, and your practice contributes to mine. When I take time to notice the beautiful morning, have I not contributed to the stillness of my community? When I enjoy a meal with friends, do we all not slow our eating and create interconnectedness?

When we engage in the delusion of separateness, we distance ourselves from the moment; we hold our spiritual breath. Hagen writes that "we keep hoping that somehow we'll throw the right spiritual switch and enlightenment will flash on at last." This passage has brought awareness to my propensity to plan, often as a way to put off reality: "I'm on the path; erring and erring I walk the unerring path; this is part of my journey and I'm just not there yet." And so it goes...

Inherent in this deluded way of thinking is the message that I am not enough yet, and that I need more. More enlightenment, more accomplishments, more books, more Zencasts...if my life is my practice, then I suppose I also need more physical fitness, more fiscal responsibility, more professional accomplishments.

But, when I accept the reality that all I have is what I have at this moment, and that what I have allows for spontaneous enlightenment, then I have a profound sense of responsibility. That my energies and actions matter. That when I practice lovingkindness I contribute to the celestial collectiveness of our being.

Hagen writes, "there can only be one place: right here, right now."

What is your practice? How do you express your enlightenment?