Happy Buddhist New Year!

Happy New Year to all my friends who practice Mahayana Buddhism, one of the two basic schools of Budhism.

That's me, third boat from the left.
Picture credit: http://newlotus.buddhistdoor.com/en/news/d/24143

Ok, I'll come clean. I have exactly 0 friends who practice Mahayana Buddhism. Any Buddhist bloggers out there living within a 100 mile radius of Maryland, USA who want to invite me over for tonight's celebration, I can be ready at the drop of a hat. I'll bring booze, any amount, depending on your level of enlightenment.

Mahayanan Buddhists believe individuals have no intrinsic value, and that they only exist in relation to others. Fantastic concept-  it greatly supercedes the Christian notion of treating others as if they were your sisters or brothers.  For Buddhists, other people actually ARE you, in a sense.

Don't just do unto others as you would have them do unto you, do well unto others because they make you you.

The Mahayan New Year always falls on the first full moon in January, which happens to be tonight.

Different cultures celebrate in different ways, but almost all include visits to temples to light candles, prayers to Lord Buddha, and of course, fireworks.

Apparently, in Tibet there's a highly competitive yak butter sculpting competition. Don't want to be late for that one.

Children may also wash the feet of their parents. Give me six more days of this tradition and I'll be Buddhist for life. Er, lives.

Any of my blogger friends ever celebrate this holiday? Would love to hear more about it!

Robins in Winter

Today LB and I spent a half hour staring out the window at a flock of robins that had taken over our front yard.

This is not the Robin to whom I refer

Not much talking, just an occasional comment or two about a fat bird here, a cocky bird there.

Best half hour of my day so far.

Here's a poem for Saturday from Jessica Powers. I like that she finds heaven within instead of without. I'm not much of a "Paradise in the sky with streets of gold" kinda gal.

I was reminded of the poem while I was attempting to do a few Sun Salutations this morning. As my body creaked through the poses I tried to imagine the "shining overflowing" from deep within. Still couldn't reach my toes, but at least I got through without taking my back out again.

Now that you have that pleasant image in your heads...

The saints and mystics
had a name
for that deep
inwardness of flame,
the height or depth
or ground or goal
Which is God's dwelling
in the soul.

Not capax Dei*
do you say;
nor
scintilla animae
nor synderis-
all are fair-
but heaven,
because God is there.

All day and when
you wake at night
think of that place
of living light,
yours and within you
and aglow
where only God
and you can go.

None can assail you
in that place
save your own evil,
routing grace.
Not even angels
see or hear
nor the dark spirits
prowling near.

But there are days
when watching eyes
could guess that you
hold Paradise.
Sometimes the shining
overflows
and everyone
around you knows.

*capax Dei-  capacity for God
scintilla animae- spark of the soul
synderis- disposition to do good

Greyhounds on a Grey Day

Today I found a small blue thing at the dog park. Surprising, I know, considering a usual trip to the dog park results in the bagging of many small brown things.

This morning dawned grey and cold, a repeat of the last few days around here. Typical for a normal Maryland January but atypical of the southern temps we've experienced for the last two years. That global warming is a tricky minx; just when you think you have a handle on her, she blows some arctic air up your knickers and reminds you what a cold bitch she can be.

This weather has completely erased any willpower I possess. The most strenuous exercise I've performed in the last few days involved cutting copious amounts of shortening into flour to make biscuits. My stomach is in heaven; Linus and my thighs are in hell.

We have a huge yard so Linus was able to run around a bit, but he is used to at least four 3-5 mile hikes a week (translating to 10-15 off leash miles for him), and my refusal to leave the couch took him aback, to say the least.

Day One- Gazing out the window, Linus silently begs me to put down the fork.



Day Two- hope fading, Linus attempts a push up in a desperate attempt at exercise

 

Day Three- With his final bit of strength, Linus throws an ear across my keyboard,
hoping to gain my attention. I surf onward, accidentally spilling tea on his head.

Today a small spark of my former exercising self was lit within me, and I rose from my crumb filled bed. After heaving my legs into my largest pair of sweatpants (using two hands per leg), I threw a piano case around my shoulders for protection from the elements, and sailed forth to the dog park.

I know, I know a dog park means exercise for Linus, not me. But the fact that I put the chicken leg down and walked out of my house in sneakers instead of slippers was a huge step forward.

Needless to say, Linus was happier than a vampire at a blood drive.

He ran and barked and sniffed and humped, repeating this cycle over and over in a frenzy of joy.

And then...the girls arrived. A man entered the enclosed area leading not one, not two, not three, but FOUR of the most beautiful greyhounds I had ever seen.

The look on Linus's face was priceless. You know the music that plays every time Lauren Bacall or Rita Hayworth or Jessica Rabbit walks into a room? Linus had an endless loop of this playing in his tiny, tiny head.

To you these dogs may look like four legged crossing guards.
 To Linus? Sports Illustrated, swimsuit edition.

Linus approached the ladies, tail raised, butt available. Such a gentleman. One by one, the girls gracefully bent their heads, and in a manner I can only describe as delicate, sniffed the noxious fumes emanating from his hindquarters. Linus gratefully reciprocated, ecstatically shoving his nose wherever they allowed him to shove it. He was quite boorish, really. I guess the girls like it somewhat rough.

He really got them going, at one point joining in with other dogs to chase the greyhounds around the large enclosure.

This is the bit where my small blue thing moment happened.  As the dogs began to run, all of the adults in the park turned to watch. One greyhound in motion is a thing of beauty. Four greyhounds in motion stunned us into silence. With feet skimming the ground and bodies lunging forward, the dogs moved in silent rhythm, their syncopated movements perfectly timed.

The humans watched in awe. The other dogs, barking, fell quickly behind. The Ladies flew on, in single minded pursuit of an invisible rabbit, unaware of their unimaginable speed and unspeakable beauty as they completed their turn around the yard.

In those moments these animals defined Purpose, as they effortlessly acheived exactly what they were born to do.

What a lovely thing, to unquestionably possess the explanation of your existence.

I turned in a circle, half expecting to see a jet stream tracing the path they had run, but of course nothing trailed behind, save a few exhausted mutts and a dog named Linus.

Both Linus and I left the park happy and satiated, Linus with the scents of the Ladies filling his seriously compromised brain, and I with the unexpected pleasure of seeing Purpose fulfilled.

There are small, blue things everywhere. You just have to stand still long enough to see them.

Generations

"Snow falls... At first a few separate flakes float down slowly, one by one; then more, faster and faster, filling our eyes with dazzling, dancing whiteness. The movement is more mysterious because it is silent: dancing, wild dancing with no sound, like voiceless singing. If it made even the tiny tap of hail it would seem to fall into our world, but the silence is absolute; it is we who are walking in another world, a world in which we are ghosts. The falling flakes touch our face with unimaginable lightness and melt on the faint warmth of our blood, at once elusive and intimate."
                                                             Caryll Houselander

I went to the funeral of a childhood friend's mother today. My friend, Greg, and I were part of a very tight knit group of kids who were thick as thieves all through high school and college. Most of us still see each other, although not as consistently as we used to in our twenties and thirties.

Kids, jobs, lives lived. You know.

As teens and young adults we had many occasions to chat with each other's parents as we stopped by the house in the beginning of the evening and stumbled back in at night's end. Except for the occasional drunken and/or idiotic mishap, all of the parents seemed happy to entertain our group as we tumbled in and out like puppies from one house or another.

And as much as our own parents drove us crazy, our friend's parents delighted us in equal measure.

As we grew up and got places of our own, we saw less and less of each other's parents, but they certainly stayed with us in our minds and hearts. In fact, it was easy to catch real glimpses of them in our own behaviors as we grew older and older...and older.

Don't ever say you are not going to turn out like your mother and father. That's a bet you are sure to lose, my friend.

Greg's mom and dad, Marie and Al, were always welcoming when we were young. No matter how many times we ate them out of house and home, drank their good beer, or broke a lamp, their door stayed open.

For the most part. There were a few times a window had to be jimmied. I'm sure these were just misunderstandings.

 Over the years I have run into Marie and Al around our small town, at kid's ball games, or at various parties and functions. Each time I saw them I felt sentimentally overjoyed, a feeling that I hope was reciprocated.

Marie was a small woman, quick in movement, warm and friendly. Her character was not forceful, but more like the snowflakes described above, full of quiet and light.

A few years ago, cancer came to live with Marie. She thought she had successfully driven this wholly uninvited stranger away, but recently it crept back to stay.

And so, uncharacteristically, Marie decided to think of herself. In her very private and calm manner, she told her family she was ceasing treatment. At the age of 75, after a life spent living for others, Marie focused on herself. The last few weeks of her life, in what one would imagine to be a situation in which one has no control, Marie turned the tables and called the shots.

She went home to her little house and surrounded herself with family. She waited for her parish priest to visit and administer last rites, repeating the words as they were spoken. And a few hours after these final prayers were performed, Marie quietly, and lightly, breathed her last.

Today we laid her ashes to rest. The earthly reward for her generous heart was plain to see, as so many people attended the funeral it had to be moved from the chapel to the church. I was glad for the family to have visual proof of the character of this wife, mother, and grandmother. I was glad to have known Marie and grateful for the chance to have been a part of her life, and a friend to her family.

Just as the falling snowflakes described above, Marie's great grace touched my face with unimaginable lightness, and melted on the faint warmth of my blood.

She is a part of me now, and a part of us all.