I was spending the morning putting up posters for our upcoming meditation workshop called 'Overcoming Anger'. The poster seemed specifically designed for this morning after the US Presidential Election of 2016.
I saw a young woman yesterday, as I stood waiting for a bus in Portland, Maine. An art student giving out free hugs. A line on her placard read: “Love is unconquerable and constant.”
I was spending the morning putting up posters for our upcoming meditation workshop called 'Overcoming Anger'. The poster seemed specifically designed for this morning after the US Presidential Election of 2016.
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This morning, I sit and write and attempt to let the emotions of the past three days find alignment. So I can release them to the wind.How does one reconcile the terrorist attacks in Paris? How does one react to a world filled with this sort of pain?
I want to recount my movements this past week. How daily life and dharma met. It began last week, when I was deep in preparation for a meditation retreat. As a volunteer in my local Buddhist center - our Maine branch, I was helping to lead a full-day retreat on Saturday November 14 called Tranquil Abiding - Buddha's astonishingly clear teachings on how to still the mind, to bring it to complete focus. The meditation we would be focusing on was called 'Equalizing Self and Other'. I was following my teacher, Geshe Kelsang Gyatso's exquisite teachings in his books Joyful Path of Good Fortune and Eight Steps to Happiness. In this meditation, we use logic and reasoning to evoke a mind of love. I had been allowing this logic to touch my mind deeply in the lead-up to the retreat. Here it is quickly, in a nutshell: I first met Mei at a dim sum restaurant in Portland, Maine.
She came dressed in a funky Tibetan wool hat and handed me a photograph of one of her artworks, Tao Seeker (below). I was struck by this work, its searching, its journeying. It was October 2013 and Suzanne Fox and I had put on an event with the curator and translator Valerie Doran. A quiet legend, Valerie has worked alongside the likes of Johnson Chang Tsong-zung and played a seminal role in the emergence of the Chinese avant garde to the world in the early 90s. I had lured her up to this New England sea port to speak about 5,000 years of Chinese art history. At this lunch event, Mei Selvage appeared, her eyes wide with inspiration, telling me that she was an artist based here in Portland. It was almost like we had generated the entire event for her - so intensely did she respond to the themes of the talk. The two of us exchanged phone numbers and met up again the following month. For the past 48 hours, I have been tied to my Facebook and Twitter feeds. Like a drip, it has been feeding me with news and sounds and sights. I have been unable to leave it.
Perhaps it's because I am watching these mass scenes of civil disobedience in Hong Kong and want to be there. I grew up amid these streets - and I can't walk out the front door right now. I'm stuck in the US, so I need to read my way through this. I've hung out with Hong Kong's punk rockers and artists and dancers and I've come to know its soul through my work as an arts writer there - one of ancient fishing village meets Bladerunner futurism. One of killer movie industries, 4am cha cha tengs, financial wizardry, and a resilient and utterly unique culture that has grown from its ancient Chinese roots despite all the crap that colonialism has thrown its way. A city where in 1949 and the 1950s, artists and painters joined refugees from across China as they fled down from the threat of communism and into the welcoming coves of Hong Kong's islands. Because despite those British colonists being in charge, the city was nonetheless offering a place where people could free their minds. The New Ink painting movement was born, Lui Shou-kwan threw modernism and Zen insight into an ancient craft of ink on rice paper - precisely because of Hong Kong's freedoms. Maybe I can't leave my Twitter feed because in 1989, I was a young student in Hong Kong. And I distinctly remember sitting on a sofa in our home in Pokfulam and watching the unfolding events on the TV in Beijing. That leaves a certain scar on one's psyche. When that event happened, Hong Kong was the only place in the whole of China where it was legal to go out on the street and bear witness. And the people went, in their hundreds of thousands. Today was intense. It involved tears. You may remember when I gleefully wrote about my first driving lesson.
It was two summers ago. I had sat with a group of 15 year olds through a Driver's Ed series (I was old enough to mother them all) and then my driving teacher, DJ, took me out for a spin. That blog contained the seeds of freedom and glee. I did my written exam, got my permit and... two years passed. And not much driving practice occurred. I found many other things to do and practicing driving was very low on the list. Admittedly, our car also fell apart numerous times, which didn't help. Last month we witnessed the final death of our kind VW Golf. Its transmission sputtered its final breath. So we got a Subaru instead—complete with four wheel drive and a moon roof. Today was the time to head out to the empty parking lot behind the Maine Mall again. To acclimatize myself with these new wheels. To attempt to master this mind-bogglingly difficult task of driving a car. For the past five days, I've been submersed in a powerful peace. The kind of peace that wraps kindness around your temples. That pulls your center of gravity out of your fast-paced head and down into your heart.
The kind of peace that is like cotton wool headphones plugging you into another soundtrack. Where air and space take the place of busy sound. Where we can begin to slow down the cogs. It all started early last Friday when Rebecca appeared outside my window in the West End of Portland, with a rented car with New Jersey plates. We set out on the six and a half hour journey to the Catskills of New York and the home of the World Peace Temple at KMC New York. I heard the news tonight as I stood in the kitchen of our tiny apartment in the West End of Portland, cleaning pots.
Terry Gross's voice cutting through the din of aluminum pans clanging, through the ceaseless flow of thoughts. She caught me mid-air as I moved to grab another one off the counter: "... Peter Matthiessen, who died this weekend." Time freezes. Like a bell cutting through the forest. That feeling when you're out in the woods and you sense a great being in your midst. You sense his passing footsteps. And because of this, you must stop. I pull up a stool at the kitchen table, slowly sink down and hold my face to the speakers. And the obituary plays out. You may have seen the news reports this week about the group of monks and nuns protesting outside the Dalai Lama’s teachings in San Francisco. You may have seen this video clip where a nun asks him directly to allow religious freedom, and he says to her: “No. This is not religion, this worship of spirit, so that’s wrong.”
I walked yesterday through the West End of Portland, as a wild wind blew. It was a strangely warm day for early October and a full spectrum of red, crimson, and yellow leaves were spinning in circles. Pumpkins lay on doorsteps and there was this kind of funny, wild energy to the air.
Spring is an extraordinary season to be in New England. Blossoms are dropping off trees. The roads are covered in dazzling red and pink. Petals in all directions.
The sun has come out and warmed all of us, and life has leapt into this dizzying action. Nature launches it's immense season of fertility — and it affects us all. We go crazy busy. My most recent new development is that I have started to work with an array of New England poets, painters and visionaries. Some very artistic karma is ripening and it's occurring as naturally as the buds coming to the trees. |
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