Like Snow-Fuckin-White

It is never a good idea to go back to bed after you have already gotten up and eaten breakfast. This morning found me at the home of one of my most misbehaved students, listening to his father make wedding plans for their daughter. The father (who had an uncanny resemblance to a blonde surfer from Dogtown) was planning a wedding dinner that included their dog, which he was going to butcher himself. This was to be a treat for all of the guests that he hated. I laughed conspiratorially with him, which troubled me even in my sleep.

Suddenly I was driving Mo and AJ to NYC in a snowstorm and we ended up stopping in a small town where we made our way to a second-story shop/dance studio/restaurant. Mo immediately collapsed to the floor, saying she was "SO TIRED" and one of her friends rushed over and caringly whisked her away.

The place was very hippy/drug paraphenalia-ish, and I sat on the floor watching a naked girl on a scaffold put a new poster on the wall. I was surprised to discover that I was naked too, and since there were clothes scattered on the hardwood floor, I began to drag some toward me. I slipped on some sweats, wondering who they belonged to, and decided that this Grateful Dead-looking tribe probably shared their clothing. I took an extra sweatshirt with me.

I found AJ, who led me into a small adjacent room to tell me something important...and then I woke up, apparently. So on to "reality".

Here I am with four days off (one down and counting). Oh, the pressure for us all on a holiday weekend to have fun, go on a vacation, somewhere, something, collect memories. I am happy to be in the city when everyone else has rushed off. It is a different perspective, an empty view of the place, tranquil and quiet and delightfully lonely.

Yesterday I spent a couple of hours in the gardens, taking pictures and sitting by the ponds with my eyes closed. The day was sunny and rainy, first dark clouds then white puffy clouds, then windy followed by calm and quiet. Luscious. The flowers were surreal and the animals frolicked around me like equals. I felt like Snow-Fuckin-White.

The Flower and the Wind are Old Friends

I haven't been able to access my blog for the past couple of days, which has made me a little crazy. Even if I'm not writing, I find comfort in coming here. It is my secluded place.

Comments are messed up too. I tried to leave a message for Cookie, who wrote about an old medicine man who was buried today. Along with him, she says, more old old ancient knowledge disappeared forever.

Her post reminds me of a book I have been reading called Road to Heaven: Encounters with Chinese Hermits, about Taoist practitioners and Buddhist monks and nuns who live a life of solitude in the Chungnan Mountains of China. The author, Bill Porter (all italic and block quotes from his book), says that in ancient China the shaman was closely connected to a person following the hermit tradition.

When emperors, kings, clan chiefs, leaders of early Chinese culture needed to get in touch with natural forces, the gods outside the city wall and inside the human heart, they turned to hermits. Hermits could talk to heaven. They knew its signs, they spoke its language. Hermits were shamans and diviners, herbalists and doctors, adepts of the occult and the manifest...Detached from values imposed by whim of custom, hermits have remained an integral part of Chinese society because of their commitment to their culture's own most ancient values. If nothing else, they represent its mythic past...

Througout Chinese history, there have always been people who preferred to spend their lives in the mountains, getting by on less, sleeping under thatch, wearing old clothes, working the higher slopes, not talking much, writing even less - maybe a few poems, a recipe or two. Out of touch with the times but not with the seasons, they cultivated roots of the spirit, trading flatland dust for mountain mist. Distant and insignificant, they were the most respected men and women in the world's oldest society.

During the Cultural Revolution extensive damage was done by the Red Guards to shrines, books were burned and monks were beat up. Like Native American medicine men, it seems that hermits are a dying breed.

I search the land for those with wisdom. In this world real spirituality is feared, obliterated, through genocides and institutions, through obedience, and lack of knowledge. What is left, at least in this country, is a disapproving and damaging shell called American civil religion.

People willing to reduce their desires and cultivate tranquility in this modern age are few. This is the age of desire.

Our Lady's Bedstraw

Job's Tears, Wormwood, Scullcap, Rue,
Moonseed, Fireweed, Dyer's Broom,

Balmony, Sea Holly, Fleur-de-lis,
Kinnikinick, Cowslip, Bearsberry,

Snow-in-the-Summer, Blue Wings, Birthwort, Chicory,
Yarrow, Good King Henry, Mugwort, Betony,

Maypop, Teasel, Nasturtium, Hydrangea,
Hollyhock, Yellow Flag, Squirrel Tail, Zinnia,

Dutchman's Pipe, Simplers Joy, Clammy Weed, Milk Thistle,
Rhododendron, Jack-in-the-Pulpit, Wind Flower, Tormentil,

Torch-Lily, Spider Flower, Lady's Thumb, Periwinkle,
Salsify, Silver Buffalo-Berry, White Mezereon, Chervil,

Maidenhair Fern, Tansy, Lobelia, Hibiscus,
Bleeding Heart, Cohosh, Vervain, Spring Adonis,

Sumac, Borage, Bells of Ireland, Indian Physic,
Bloodberry, Comfrey, Star Cluster, Spring Snowflake

I lay me down on earth's bed moss
Small pleasures close my eyes

The stars my twinkling bedclothes
Small creatures sleep nearby

Gardening Maternal

Mother Chrysanthymum, bare feet on frosty ground.
Lilac. Iris.
Lily of the valley.
Indigo. True Blue. Verbena.

Excavating ancient familiar fields,
no rare seed, no bygone bulb reveals me to
Me. Some wild hybrid. Some rootless one, I am windborne over lavender oceans.



Bouncing Bet, Great Aunts Pride, Poppy, Forsythia, Sweet Daughter,
Black-eyed Susan, Little Girls Devotion, Dandelion, Strawflower, Paper.

Bare-teethed fish unfold like tiger flowers,
Gold, orange, ruby-tipped
They pierce icy white toes
sunk deep in black dirt

Sunday State of Mind

OK. I killed the roly bugs. What can I say?

I also booked a flight to Florida, so it's settled. I'm leaving right after school ends in June. White sand. Blue water. Naples. The Keys. Psych!

The Buddhist Shindig

So, after getting momentarily lost in redneck country, I drive up the dirt road to the Buddhist outpost. I grew up in "these here parts", and as I pass pickup trucks driven by men in baseball caps I can only imagine the vicious hissing gossip that goes on here concerning the Asians who drive down this remote country road and the colorful ornate little buildings that seem so alien on the plain midwestern landscape.

Fifteen minutes early, I sit in my car in the parking lot, fiddle around for a while and finally get out and ask a caucasion woman if I am going toward the right building. She nods and smiles, but doesn't speak. I have decided that I will do my best to blend in and not make it obvious that this is my "first time". I step into the entry way and see a few people talking quietly in the main room inside. I take off my shoes, open the screen patio door and enter the tiny room where red cushions topped with folded blue towels dot the floor. I imagine myself noisily tripping and falling headlong into the room (are there any Buddhist comics in existence?). I nervously anticipate the reverence and ceremony that I will have to mimic. This is demanding. Whew! The few Asians in the room politely ignore me, let me find my own way, and I nonchalantly move toward the back, try and find my place in the room. I size up about five folding chairs in the back of the room and the towel/cushion combos in front. I think they expect this white woman to need a folding chair, because when they saw me coming they started busily unfolding them. I see another white woman sit down on a cushion and I slide in next to her, removing the blue bathroom towel with the same subtle movement as the Asian man in the back row. I don't speak, just nod and smile. So far so good.

Things start to get a little complicated when I notice that everyone has draped their towel over their lap. I try to observe their posture, the position of their butts on the cushions. I probably shouldn't be looking at their butts. I try to inconspicuously unfold my towel and cover my lap with it. Are we concerned here with covering our crotches? Our feet? Is is for keeping warm? Suddenly everyone is standing, so I jump up, my towel falling to the floor. I find myself bowing, my hands together in front of my chest, when the main event, a Theravadin Buddhist nun from Burma, enters the room.

She is beautiful! Tiny and young, with a shaved head and brown robes, Benetton would love to claim her, capitalize on her.



She is renowned for her teachings on the Abhidhamma, which turns out to be the philosophical psychology of Buddhism. This is a complex teaching, so maybe it wasn't the best time for me to join a group of practicing Buddhists. But I did leave with a new determination to not kill. Anything. Even the fucking roly bugs in the bathroom. Holy shit! Avoid those four woeful states! And I am trying to see "bad" experiences in a new light (for instance the "Paco debacle" (that has a certain ring, eh?). If I were a Buddhist I would be certain that some bad karma in a past life had caused that incident. I would accept it and practice living a life that would prevent more bad karma from building and ripening. Buddhism does keep one from becoming a victim, doesn't it?

Dream Balancing

A momentary loss of reason led me to list several "goals" in my last post, which in retrospect was very silly. I may as well say I want to be a trapeze artist. What does it matter? Nothing like setting myself up for failure and unhappiness. Would the reaching of any of these goals make me truly happier? Probably not. Would desiring and not obtaining make me unhappier? Probably.

We have been fooled into thinking that goal-setting is a good thing for us. Again, propaganda that fills public school hallways comes to mind.

Dream! Believe! Achieve!

Ha! Poor children, capitalist fodder, dreaming dreams of true love and material possessions. Our dreams destroy us.

Our little goals matter not a whit. I release that unhappy burden.

A Few Goals

I have been in a funk lately, so please picture me, slapping myself across the face and telling myself to "snap out of it". Huck says I need to use some "football coach-isms" with my classes, so why not on myself?

Don't tell me how rocky the waters are, just bring the damn boat in!

There now, that's better.

In that spirit, I have given myself a few goals. I decided to make the list short and sweet, not set myself up for failure with some "learn to forgive" bullshit.

So here goes:

1. Learn to vault a 5' fence with my hands.
2. Learn to swim the breast stroke correctly.
3. Swim laps.
4. Learn to speak Spanish fluently.
5. Write a novel.
4. Learn to speak Spanish
5. Write a novel.

There. That's enough.

What May Brings

Today I awoke with a start again. Not because of a dream this time, but I was troubled my mind thought it was Monday. I had to get up! Go to work! Prepare for the salt mines! Slowly I replayed the weekend to calculate what day it was, and then I realized it is mothers' day! And yesterday was the annual brunch that the women in the neighborhood organize. I missed it again. I couldn't bring myself to be in such close contact with neighbors.

Our closest neighbors, Paco and Dolores, were the street "elders" when we moved into our little house. They had lived here for almost fifty years, and had stories about all of the people who had ever lived on our block. We revered them as patient and wise onlookers of our inexperience. Needed a gardening tip? They had it, and they shared with us their crop of hot peppers that Dolores transformed yearly into her famous salsa. They fastidiously tended their little plot of ground in the summer, Dolores attempting to dwell in a little piece of Mexico with her whitewashed trees and colorful flowers. Paco bought vodka, and social butterfly that he was, sometimes drank it with us. We were good friends. I had lived in Mexico, which made the connection even deeper, and we would talk about San Miguel de Allende, about the small villages around Oaxaca, where Paco grew up, about life, neighbors, personal things. We trusted him, we had been friends for ten years, and he had a key to our house, easy entry to feed our fish and cats when we were gone.

It was one day toward the end of the school year, that high-tension time in May, when Paco called me over to the fence gate. I was hanging up clothes, and we often talked and kidded across the fence. When I got there, he said, "Are you alright?" He gave me a hug, which was not unusual. He was like a comforting grandfather. He loved me. Then I felt his hands fumbling on my breasts. I stepped away and asked him what he was doing. He said, "nothing, nothing". I was off-balance, startled, and I told him he couldn't do that, didn't he know? He apologized and I glanced around, wondering if the neighbors were watching. "It won't happen again. I'm sorry. Really. It won't happen again. Come in. I want to show you something." Thoughts raced through my head. Is he OK? Was this just a mistake? Should I go? Should I trust him? I felt compassion for the old man. Had he suffered a moral lapse in judgement and needed to make amends?

We had been friends for ten years, and I wanted to give him another chance. I didn't want to believe he would try to touch me again, but when we got into the house he tried to lead me into Dolores' bedroom, touching my breasts again and saying, "Just take it off. Just let me see. Please." He made a motion, as if to lift his shirt. I pleaded, "You didn't have anything to show me, did you? Paco, stop. This is not going to happen. Don't ruin our friendship!" I quickly walked toward the door in disbelief, with Paco still begging me, "I won't ruin our friendship. Just once. What do you want? I will give you anything. What do you want?"

"I don't want anything." I walked out the door and back into my yard with my heart beating out of my chest. Of course I had to tell Steven, and AJ, who was often home alone. Eventually the close neighbors found out. We changed the locks on the house and I haven't talked with Paco or Dolores for five years. I don't even like to go into the back yard, which was like a paradise when we moved here. I can go back there, I can force myself to take what is mine, but there is discomfort there. I avoid it.

The experience took its toll. Huck was furious. AJ was hurt. Paco and Dolores had always made her feel special, brought her gifts from their trips to Mexico, celebrated her birthday. Steven left soon after, although there were many reasons for his departure. Once, in marriage counseling, he tried to engage me, "Do you know why Paco targeted you? Do you know?" I stopped him. I didn't want to know why he thought I was guilty. I just wanted him to comfort me. I wanted to hear him say, "You didn't do anything to deserve this. Paco has a problem. You did nothing wrong."

Marilyn, who lives across the street and is a practicing Buddhist, came over to talk to me on Friday. She is "working on" her "stand-offishness". She realizes that she is not approachable, and wants to take steps to change that. She wanted me to know that she thought I should come to the womens' brunch on Saturday. She believes that since Tony molested me, the neighborhood has suffered. It caused a breach. He did something horrible, and the people need healing. "Community is so important. You can provide the opportunity for healing."

"People in this neighborhood have known Paco forever," I said. "They think I am guilty. They love Paco." Marilyn said, "Paco admitted what he did to you." I was stunned. "He did? I didn't know that." Why hadn't someone told me before?

Inner turmoil. Pacing. Needing to get out, walk, run, scream. I lashed out at Steven. "You blamed that whole episode on me!" Steven looked at me evenly and replied, "I just couldn't understand why you went into his house after it happened."

In the gardens I sought solace. You know, Bridget Jones is right. Like her, I want someone who will love me "just the way I am." Of course I know that in relationships there must be give and take, things must be ironed out. But to feel adored, totally liked just the way you are...now that's special.

Clicking pictures with my camera, I looked intently at a flower, sunlight on water, clouds dotting the blue sky and squirrels cavorting in the trees. I began to see something outside myself. Or was it inside myself? It didn't matter. It brought peace.

Suspended

Well, no Buddhist shindig last night, kids. I had the date wrong. It's next weekend.

So after taking a walk and snapping some pictures with my phone (right), I settled in and watched A Love Song for Bobby Long, a movie about a young girl who returns to New Orleans after her mother dies to find two men living in her mother's house. They are forced to live together (with much conflict) but eventually learn that they are connected in deep ways. John Travolta was good as alcoholic offensive but loveable Bobby Long, but why are filmmakers always compelled to have him dance? Come on, I'm trying to suspend my disbelief here. There were literary lines woven throughout by Bobby Long (a former English professor) and his protege, a former student, who live among misfits and invisible people (outcasts) in New Orleans. I think that's why I liked the movie. The outsiders became the focus.

I drove to the video store to return the movie and the streets, at midnight, were full of happy young people. Students stood outside bars tipping beers, and the sidewalk tables outside the coffee shops were full. They are moving out of dorms and saying goodbye. The town will grow silent again.

This morning I awoke with a jerk. In my dream Georgia and Theo and I sat across from one another. We were traveling by plane, or train, and the waiter stood above as Georgia ordered a beer. Theo ordered whiskey, and Georgia looked at him and said, "Are you sure?" I didn't drink because I knew disapproval would follow.

I left them there. Walking, I found myself approaching a large expanse of water. I quickly tried to estimate whether the rising water had left enough sandbars to hop across to reach Georgia and Theo again. It looked hopeless, and as I approached, I saw a body on its side, gracefully suspended underwater in a tidepool. I recognized the bare legs first. Then I saw her dead pale face and long brown hair, reaching weightlessly upward toward the sparkling surface, like a mermaid. It was AJ.

In a spit second I was transported to my bed, jerked awake, to this day.

This day. What will it bring? Thoughts of Georgia, Theo, AJ, my walk last night and the windy rain that whipped the trees outside as I fell asleep with a book in my hand. Relationships, alienation, the realization that I leave my past behind. I make it flawed. Then I desert it. But somewhere in my psyche the people still reside, those I have abandoned, those I have repelled, those I have pushed away. The places I discount. The good friends I spent time with. The family. The community. The past. The future.

Poof. I am gone.

Hermit

I think I am over my Bela Lugosi obsession. At least for now. But it does seem to represent the salt mines pretty well, so from now on if you see this:

you will know that I am in danger of having the life sucked out of my veins. Beware!

I am debating whether to be a hermit tonight and hide away in my little upstairs room or go to a Buddhist center and listen to teachings on the Abhidhamma. I have been interested in learning more about Buddhism for a long time, and Mallory thinks I should expand my life where I am, not wait for the "perfect" environment. She's probably right, but I reminded her that I hate the human race.

So I am probably going to do the typical thing, hide. I don't feel very fucking spiritual. Plus I ate TWO bratwursts when I got home from work...and drank a gallon of coffee. So all these freakin' people in robes that only ate two grains of rice today will be there in a meditative state of bliss in all their skinny purity...I'm bad. Dont' listen to me. I'm sure they are really very special.

I didn't always hate the human race. Working in the public school system can take you to the dark side in a hurry. Teachers come in all perky, with lesson plans dancing in their heads and in a couple years they are using all their self-control to not pound the living shit out of their students. They struggle to maintain the "happy teacher" mask.

One day a student told Wendy, the teacher in the next room, that she has ugly feet and Wendy lost it. Went off the deep end. Not because of that particular rudeness, but because of the hundreds that preceded it. That incident was the straw that broke the camel's back. Wendy survived to see me go off the deep end a day later when I heard the hundredth student say "this is stupid" when asked to do some work. She holds me up one day, I hold her up the next. It works out.

So I will think about this Buddhist shindig. It might be interesting, and hell. That nirvana sounds good, doesn't it?

Burn-0ut

I did finish grading those fucking 100 essays, in case you're interested. And the whole experience has left me spooked.



Can I remain sane until June 15th? Or will my brain explode? Stay tuned, kids.

My Day Off

9:49 am10:55 am (I just procrastinated for an hour looking for this picture.)

FUCK SERENITY! I think my organs are imploding. (I have no idea where that came from, but it seems right-on.) I am playing hookie, which should be enjoyable, but my life is being sucked out of my veins because I am grading those FUCKING 100 ESSAYS. (One batch done, four to go.)

6:22 pm (Random blathering after procrastinating for most of the day.)

Holy shit. I am totally in love with Bela Lugosi. Don't you just love that photo (above)? I would really like a glass of wine. I guess I'm a little more than half done with the 'ol grading. My mind keeps wandering off and I have to keep jerking myself back. Speaking of Bela Lugosi, isn't this other picture dramatic?


8:00 pm (While watching the second episode of Reno 911 and having graded only 4 more essays.)

Here's a spectacular photo.


And isn't this one fantastic?! Another episode of Reno 911 is starting. I gotta go watch itfinish grading the essays.