Welcome to Brother Pete's Blog Space where current events, books, historical moments and memories, movies, new & old ideas, and other randomnesses are allowed to mingle as we see fit for comment.
Something Sang The lute began... My heart snapped its chains. Something sang from the strings— —"Wounded crazy one... come!"
--Rumi
And spoke of forgiveness...
Come, Come Whoever You Are Come, come, whoever you are——Wanderer; worshiper; lover of leaving——What does it matter? Ours is not a caravan of despair. Come, even if you have broken your vows a hundred times——Come, come gain, come.
--Rumi
And opened the door...
The beauty of the heart is the lasting beauty: its lips give to drink of the water of life. Truly it is the water, that which pours, and the one who drinks. All three become one when your talisman is shattered. That oneness you can't know by reasoning.
“The Seed Market” --by Rumi. Translated by Coleman Barks
Can you find another market like this? Where, with your one rose you can buy hundreds of rose gardens? Where, for one seed you get a whole wilderness? For one weak breath, the divine wind? You’ve been fearful of being absorbed in the ground, or drawn up by the air. Now, your waterbead lets go and drops into the ocean, where it came from. It no longer has the form it had, but it’s still water. The essence is the same. This giving up is not a repenting. It’s a deep honoring of yourself. When the ocean comes to you as a lover, marry, at once, quickly, for God’s sake! Don’t postpone it! Existence has no better gift. No amount of searching will find this. A perfect falcon, for no reason, has landed on your shoulder, and become yours.
Back in 1992 I went to India at the suggestion of my mentor Royal Rhodes, a wise man who sent me on a journey where I found much of myself:
Royal W.F. Rhodes, who joined the Kenyon faculty in 1979, teaches primarily the history of Christianity. His other interests include liberation theology, third world religious experience, monasticism (East and West), and religion and the arts.
I went to study Buddhism in a Burmese monastery affiliated with Antioch College. I knew almost nothing about India nor Buddhism; it seemed like a cool thing to do while in college. While on this journey I met Chokyi Nima Rinpoche, another wise man who seemed to know I needed to "not belong" while still being accepted:
Born in 1951, in Nakchukha Chökyi Nyima Rinpoche is the eldest son of Tulku Urgyen Rinpoche, who was considered to be one of the greatest Dzogchen masters of our time. When he was only eighteen months of age, Rinpoche was recognized as the seventh incarnation of Drikung Kagyu lama Gar Drubchen. Not long after being recognized as the tulku, Rinpoche was enthroned at Drong Gon Tubten Dargye Ling, in Nakchukha. Rinpoche also studied under Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche.
Rinpoche and his family fled Tibet shortly before the Chinese invasion of Tibet.Rinpoche and his younger brother, Tsikey Chokling Rinpoche soon enrolled at the Young Lamas Home School in Dalhousie, India. At age thirteen, Rinpoche entered Rumtek Monastery and spent eleven years studying the Karma Kagyu, Drikung Kagyu, and Nyingma traditions.
Chokyi Nima Rinpoche allowed me to be a guest, allowed me frequent access to his time and space, treated me with tremendous respect, and served as the capstone experience for my time in Asia. (He also had a great sense of humor.) He taught me more through his behavior and affect than through direct teaching, and he gave me a name, of which's meaning I have tried to "be" ever since. It is a constant act of engaging in humility and confidence simultaneously. What a gift he gave me. One of his students is Lama Tenzin Sangpo:
Lama Tenzin Sangpo was born in the Tingle region of Tibet in 1967. Following his escape from Tibet in 1976, he received ordination and a traditional monastic education at Ka-Nying Shedrub Ling, Chokyi Nyima Rinpoche’s monastery, in Boudhanath, Nepal. He successfully completed a traditional three-year retreat and served for many years as the recitation master of the monastery’s extensive Buddhist ritual practices. He is one of the most knowledgeable and respected lamas at Ka-Nying Shedrub Ling.
Lama Tenzin Sangpo is thoroughly versed in the various Buddhist philosophical systems and is a highly skilled meditation practitioner. Presently, Lama Tenzin Sangpo serves as the resident Lama of Gomde Germany-Austria and travels to teach at many Gomde centers around the world.(https://dharmasun.org/teacher/lama-tenzin-sangpo/)
I listened to Lama Tenzin Sangpo this past weekend in Shelburne Falls, MA. It was a Friday night, a perfect fall day, warm in the sun and cool after dusk, an intimate room with cushions and incense, and me, trying to sit still and learn. Much of what was offered was lost on me, Tibetan specific lessons mixed in with practical wisdom. I keyed in when Lama Tenzin began speaking about taking advantage of the moment one is in, rather than looking off to a possible future. He was humorous (much like his teacher) and patiently, humbly wise. His lesson reminded me a bit of Rumi's poem, The Seed Market...
So there it is, my reflection for this Sunday morning, "A perfect falcon, for no reason, has landed on your shoulder, and become yours." What ever shall I do with it?
A gathering over food: This weekend my son and I were invited to a breakfast birthday celebration. As a child I was always impressed with Bilbo Baggins and community's practice of giving away gifts on their birthdays. It seemed noble and such a communal good. Our breakfast had tinges of such a practice. The following is part of the text of our invitation:
How about a father/son breakfast? On me, of course. Would you and [your son] do me the honor of attending?
P.S. I do ask for one and only one type of gift: I would appreciate if each person attending--both father and son, separately--would choose one poem to read out loud at some point during our gathering. It could be funny or serious. My dad, who passed in 2015, wrote dozens of poems and
also loved reciting poetry. I realize I don't have enough poetry in my life, and what better time to start than on my birthday? However, If you or your son prefer to share something other than a poem, that's fine. You can read a passage from a book. Or a political commentary. Or even tell a joke. Whatever you and he choose to share. Please do not bring any other card or present.
A sharing of pleasantries: So we gathered at a local diner, all ten of us, with the birthday man in the center, and ordered our fare while we talked and shared. Puzzles and jokes, laughter and polite conversation transitioned to taking turns reading our gifts. Whimsical poems, poignant and witty quotes, selections from grandfathers' rhyme and wisdom. Our host read an original poem about the value of the life of a personal hero. What a story! I chose to read the following poem by Rumi (whom I have been on a binge lately):
Don’t worry about saving these songs!
And if one of our instruments breaks,
it doesn’t matter.
We have fallen into the place
where everything is music.
The strumming and the flute notes
rise into the atmosphere,
and even if the whole world’s harp
should burn up, there will still be
hidden instruments playing.
So the candle flickers and goes out.
We have a piece of flint, and a spark.
This singing art is sea foam.
The graceful movements come from a pearl
somewhere on the ocean floor.
Poems reach up like spindrift and the edge
of driftwood along the beach, wanting!
They derive
from a slow and powerful root
that we can’t see.
Stop the words now.
Open the window in the centre of your chest,
and let the spirits fly in and out.
-Rumi
We received the gift: What a great idea for a special day. Just the guys... reading and listening to words offered by the other, back and forth, between two generations and invoking a third. I had a great time at this gathering of friends. There were smiles all around. My son and I got into the truck to leave, and as we pulled away from the event, he remarked what a nice time it was...
Abandoning ones nafs:
We are guests here and we are stewards. We are transient and we are liminal. We are never alone and yet such effort must be made to maintain connection...
There will be no lengthy introduction for today's post. Rumi was a 13th c. Persian poet whom I adore. I have been reading through a collection of his poems on and off all day today and have settled on a single piece of his for today's post.
Read it once, perhaps twice, and if you feel joy, maybe a third time...
The Guest House
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
History: A few years ago my classroom was left unlocked, and during the evening of a school event, my laptop was stolen. Now mind you, I used to leave my room open all day, every day, and for over a decade had almost no problems with leaving out numerous things of value (even small amounts of cash). I could count the number of a decades' worth of missing objects on my hand, and their total value was less than the gas money needed to replace them. I took pride in the honesty of my community of learners and trusted in it daily.
Lost Items: And then my laptop was stolen. I was devastated. Although I do backups, they are infrequent enough that I lost hours of curricular development. Although I use passwords, I could not risk my accounts being accessed and so deleted numerous processes (and subsequently lost hundred of dollars of music and app rights in iTunes). I worried about credit cards stored (encrypted) and changed them anyway. I did not realize how much I relied on my whole life being synced in my "mobile" device-of-choice, a mac laptop. I was unable to effectively maintain the school website, use images and presentation software for my classes, listen to music in my prep periods to sooth my wandering mind. I was way more lost than I would have believed having lost my computer.
Violation: I sank into a bit of a funk. Less smily, more guarded, low energy, I went about my job reminding myself that "I am not my computer." I thought I was adapting to this sudden forced change as well as could be expected. A few days went by and I gave a test to my students on my test day. Although I wandered the classroom and answered questions as needed, I found my mind preoccupied with anxiety and distrust. I felt violated. I felt foolish for feeling violated. It was a laptop worth only a few hundred dollars at best (it was aging and off-gassing: some of it's plastic components were starting to break down.) Maybe I wasn't handling things so well. Was I so preoccupied with my possessions that this would rattle me? Was I so attached to the products of my past work that I was delving into a funk that was unshakable and affecting those around me? What was wrong with me that I was not giving myself to my job as I was used to? Aarghhhh!
Non-Attachment: When I was living/studying in India I kept a journal with all my reflections, poetry, observations about some insights I was having. I was transforming in a positive way, and better yet, I was aware of my growth and wanted to write down my ideas so I could refine them when I came down from the high of my experience. And then my journal was stolen... most likely by one of the many young boys who hung around our band as we traveled. My teacher suggested that it probably turned into a quick warm fire on a cold morning or was used as toilet paper. He laughed and compassionately said, "maybe it is a lesson on non-attachment for you." It was a tough lesson. I had letters for my girlfriend who I was beginning to think could be a partner for life (I DID marry her five years later). I had reflections on why I had been so lost when I was in high-school. I had little moments of poetry that were clear, and to me felt beautiful, and I hoped to share them with whoever might listen. And regardless of whether my work was cremated or wiped, it was gone. Non-attachment.
Melancholy: It was fall when my laptop was stolen. I love the fall. The fall taunts me with melancholy and rewards me with the smell of cook-fires. The fall is a cold breeze on my face and a cup of hot tea in my hands. I get reflective and I regress. I think the contrasts are what I am drawn to, and which tweak me a bit. It's like chasing a bite of chocolate with a piece of sharp Vermont Cheddar. Nom nom nom. It seems fitting that this laptop incident happened at the end of October. It's always in October; whatever it is. It is hard to explain how October feels to me. The 1995, 10x platinum, Smashing Pumpkins album Mellon Collie And The Infinite Sadness comes close. My wife asked years ago, "Doesn't it brilliantly define the teen experience with all the conflicting emotions?" I have to agree. It does: Bullet with Butterfly Wings: "Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage." Thirty-Three: "Intoxicated with the madness, I'm in love with my sadness." 1979: "No apologies ever need be made, I know you better than you fake it." Tonight, Tonight: "Time is never time at all, you can never ever leave without leaving a piece of youth, and our lives are forever changed, we will never be the same." And on and on...
Test Day Doodles: And so on my test day, in between answering questions and wandering around the class, and while I was not feeling trust nor faith in students, and while I was licking my melancholic wounds of October, I resorted to doodling. In reflection I think I must have been tuned into poem drawings that I've seen my students doing for English class, and I must have been tuned into a poem that is a personal favorite. But what started out as self-pity, angst, a romantic embrace of madness turned into insight and peace. Rumi's poem tricked me to kick open my mind and remember that I am looking for reasons. October was over, November brought promise of more stability, and the kindness of my friends and students washed away the melancholy. Rumi wrote:
I have lived on the lip
of insanity, wanting to know reasons,
knocking on a door. It opens.
I've been knocking from the inside.
The Return: Students figured out in a few days what had happened to my laptop. Their collective outrage, colleagues' offers of help and compassion, the administration's quick support for me, and my family's understanding quickly smoothed my over-reactive feelings of violation. Weeks later the stolen laptop mysteriously appeared in my closet shelved among the books of poetry and Asian wisdom. I had had time to doodle, find some perspective, reflect on my October. The contrasts of wisdom and foolishness, self-indulgence and community, living in the moment and dwelling on lost moments moved into a sweet blend of acceptance and restored trust. What had knocked me out of whack had very little to do with my actual laptop. It had nothing to do with monetary value. I allowed myself to be distracted by the re-injury of lost creative work. But the real pain was the temporary loss of faith and trust in my students. I allowed one impulsive act of weakness to tarnish my feelings for students in general. Foolish man.
The End: And in the end, that one unknown soul who experienced one weak moment found the courage to undo his one impulsive and selfish act. I checked the logs of the CPU processes. They told a story of several attempts to break in, disconnection from the network, further attempts to reboot and login, and finally the death of the battery's charge. And there the logs lose track of the story. The best part of the story remains untold. It is the struggle by one to do the right thing and find a way out.
Postscript: I should note that I kept the returned computer a secret from everyone save my Principal. Weeks after the computer was "shelved" in my closet I did note that a dear student, lost at times, but very good in heart, repeatedly checked in with me asking if I had recovered my laptop yet. It was curious, his choice of words, his repeated check-ins. He did not share other students' condemnation of the thief. He seemed worried I had not gotten my property back, yet. I never said, "I forgive you." But I did find the compassion to say, "I am sure it was only taken in a moment of weakness, and whoever took it was probably a good person at heart." He smiled at that, and didn't check on the laptop's fate again...
Something Sang
Come, Come Whoever You Are
