something to consider.

Healing Touch, here I come.

This weekend I will find myself in Upstate New York once again. This time I'm taking the Level 1 Healing Touch class.

Time to make cookies while contemplating my own deep nature.

At the beginning of last week I'd never heard of Frank Ostaseski. I had heard of the Zen Hospice (in San Francisco) but as I tend to live most of my life on the East Coast I can be a bit blind to what's going on on the Other Coast. When I was contemplating the Art of Dying IV it began to dawn on me that Frank was flying across the country to lead a day-long institute so perhaps I could drag my lazy bones out of bed a little earlier than planned and drive to Menla. Of course I did not leave my Zen Mind (Begginner's Mind) behind.

I arrived at Menla around 9:30 a.m. and much to my horrror found Phoenicia underwater and a state of emergency having been declared. The normally bucolic rivers and streams had completely overrun their banks. The waters rushed in a torrent and there's the sound of a flood and if you've heard a flood you know what I mean. A babbling brook's babble gets turned up beyond 10 and it sounds like a wall of white noise. In hearing this I was reminded that Mother Nature can give us the beatdown whenever she feels like it and we can take measures to protect life and limb and salvage property afterwards.

As I pulled into Menla I wondered how much the weather would affect the travel plans of everyone else who was planning on attending. In the end everyone, save Joanne who had died a week earlier of ovarian cancer, made it to the conference.

Friday at 10 a.m. I took my groggy self (I am not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination) and headed to the conference center. Here I met Frank. It will be old age and senility that drive from my memory the first day spent with Frank. Yup. It was that cool (for me). I'm sure a lot of folks were feeling him in there own way but it was my time and I was ready to listen and hear and synthesize Frank.

Today I emailed him asking permission to post the 5 Precepts to my blog and he asked that I not do that so that his words are not taken out of context and misused. (But it's okay for me to give a photo copy to my closest friends. You've all been forewarned -- the precepts are on their way to you...)

And there are plenty of books and lectures on tape out there for anyone who is interested in becoming a Zen scholar. I'm not here to flog the Zen horse.

But -- I am going to leave you with things that Frank said that resonated with me. If they do something for you, great. If not, please leave this blog and get to the things that matter.

"No contact with suffering -- not much compassion."
"Our relationship to our own deep nature can illuminate the darkness."
"Compassion has a fierceness to it."
"Compassion wants to snuggle up to pain."
"This is intimate work. You cannot do this work from afar."
"I find a great meeting place with others in my suffering."
"I have confidence in my suffering -- let me be with my suffering."

Kind of pithy and annoying on the one hand, kind of instructive and helpful if you're ready for it.

And now I'm off to bake cookies. It's finally cold and gray and rainy (like October should be -- yay!) and the kitchen is once again the place where warmth and the yumminess of baking belongs.

Is it possible to be a dork about death?

It’s odd to think that I’d like to surround myself with the dying and those who want to aid in making the dying process better, but that’s exactly where I find myself.

Tomorrow I’ll be attending Frank Ostateski’s pre-conference institute at Menla Mountain Retreat.
I’ve got the pre-conference butterflies. This means that I’m looking forward to… what? For one thing I won’t be at my desk in Manhattan and that’s reason enough to be happy. I’ve set my expectations for Death & Dying IV very low (as I always do). I’ll enter tomorrow’s day-long experience with nothing on my mind other than keeping an open mind. I’ll be prepared to have my brains turned into a paradigm-shifted soup. Oddly enough I think I’ll be grounded throughout all of this even though my mind will be in a whirlwind of wonderful activity.

The presenters at Death & Dying could be called heavy hitters. Robert Thurman? Marianne Williamson?

Yes, I’ve read some of their books, been to their talks/discussions and I hate to say it but Death & Dying IV isn’t about them -- it’s about me.

It’s taken a long time for me to finally understand that I’m here to help other people. (I’m following up this conference with a workshop where I’ll become certified Level 1 in healing touch.) For me the big question is: who am I as a practitioner? The other questions: what can I do to become the best? How can I serve the most people? How can I effectuate change on a massive scale?

Over the coming months and years I will get answers to these questions

"SUUUUUE."

It's been an interesting week in the Big Apple.

Monday morning as I made my way into the office I passed Danny Glover on the downtown #1 platform at 59th Street. He was gracious enough to pose for a photo with and older African-American woman. I wondered if he rides public transportation in an effort to be eco-friendly or if there's a little of the Thrifty-Scot lurking inside him. Ain't nothin' wrong with frugality.

Then last night I met one of my friends, I call him Papi, who used to be one of my vendors met for drinks. Back in the day (like 24 months ago) we used to go to these lavish lunches and dinners. When I started to rattle off the list of celebrities we've dined next to he laughed and interjected, "Anna Wontour!" (And it's true we sat two tables from her at Pastis a couple of years back.)

Nowadays we're all spending a little more time consulting the Thrifty-Scot and I've told Papi I don't care where we eat, if it's pizza and a can of coke that's fine by me. Papi isn't ready to take it to that level so we had drinks and burgers at Trailer Park Lounge. I told him I'd meet him at any tiny hell-hole at the end of the world if need be and he said, "You're a good friend."

After dinner I stumbled home -- and  if you order a burger at Trailer Park Lounge you get a free can of beer then chase that with a few $5 margaritas and you too can stumble home... where I fell  into an uneasy sleep.

I was wide awake at 2:45 a.m. (Was it the tater tots?) This has become a new habit. I used to wake up at 3:15 a.m. And now I think I'm going to take a hint from Lindsay Lohan's route to a good night's sleep and read... REST.

Today as I was walking along the sidewalks of Manahattan because last night when I stumbled home I managed to misplace my monthly MTA card and so it was time to take a stroll as I did my errands. Meandering around Manhattan is always interesting but I was wishing the cool, sexy breeze that ought to be present in the almost-month of October, would show up already.

After stops at Petco and Duane Reade and the discount DVD store, as I headed towards Penn Station I congratulated myself on DVDs purchased for $5.99. (Go Thrifty!) I ambled onto the subway platform and there was Sue Wicks. Glowing -- as she always does.

I said, "Sue Wicks, what are you doing on this platform?" She smiled and said, "Waiting for the train." (Duh)

The last time I got close to Sue was outside Madison Square Garden in 2001. The Liberty were in the playofffs. The atmosphere near the entrance to the Garden was electric. Fans were milling about and everyone was all smiley. I had brought a box of Bazooka bubble gum for Becky Hammon and just as the security guard took the box from me I turned and saw Sue. All thougths of Becky vanished. (Sorry Bubba.) Then -- as if I was in a trance -- I found myself making a slow deliberate march towards Sue. I do recall I pushed past a throng of young girls and women. I stood about a foot taller than the rest of them. And when I found myself face-to-face with Sue, she stood a foot taller than me. The woman is refulgent. And she's a hell of a ball player. And she's openly gay. I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. I stood there. (I believe this is called star-struck and it was the first time I'd ever experienced this.) Sue stepped forward and hugged me. When she stepped back I said, "Thank you for being out." She smiled. Then with nothing left to say, I turned and headed into the Garden.

This afternoon we did not hug but she seemed to recognize me. She beamed (as she always does) and said, with genuine interest, "How have you been?" I was all smiles and this time I was able to locate my words. I told her what I had been up to and asked how she was. I asked, "Are you happy?" She smiled and replied, "Yes. Are you?" I said, "I'm very tired but happy." After more small talk I excused myself and headed to catch my train.

I could tell the story about the time I approached Tracey Ullman on the sidewalk to discuss the Liberty -- during the regular season -- but I'll save that for another day. Suffice to say we had a very pleasent chat. And I thanked her for coming to the games. You'd think I was the ambassador for the Liberty or something the way I go around acting all familiar with the players and celebrities who participate in the Liberty games. But I am genuinely happy that I've been able to attend so many games over the years. I've watched the way the players got younger (that was a natural progression), watched the level of play turn more agressive (Hell ya!), and seen a few players dunk during games (on highlight reels).

It's only Wednesday. I wonder what the heck Thursady will bring?

Friday I'm heading to Menla to attend the pre-conference hosted by Frank Ostaseski.

Now if only that cool breeze would show up...

My roommate rocks.

My dear friend (and my best friend) CC once said, “You and C have such an odd relationship.” And she’s right. C and I do have an odd relationship. We’re roommates. We’re unmarried and well past the age of 40. So we’re spinsters. We split the expenses on the car and the apartment. We care for a motley crew of pets: 1 mini-lop rabbit, 1 English Angora rabbit, 1 (17 year old) Persian cat.
Basically C let’s me enjoy the experience of being me which means she let’s me run rampant. And I’d like to think that I’m cool enough to return the favor. But C is not the rambunctious type. She gets thing done, in her own time, in her own way. She’s never moody (which is something I find hard to comprehend). I try to stay out of her way but I’ve got the personality of an overly-caffeinated person, even though I rarely touch the stuff, so I’m always pestering C about every little thing. She has rightfully stated, many times, “You’re lucky I’m such a good natured person.”

This past summer – when I was being extra moody & yet sometimes extra Zen (I refer to this as the paradox of my personality) -- I’d get cranky with C for no apparent reason. And some days I’d be cranky but then I’d think of all the cool things she’s done and I’d be really glad that we’re friends. In particular, my spinster roommate started a low-income CSA in NYC. Yup. That’s how cool she is.

C works in the non-profit world and she partnered with a bunch of other non-profit folks, hung up a flyer, and before you knew it she’d lined up a farm and lined up members and then once the first week of June rolled up, folks were filing into the community center to grab their shares.

The way the system worked, 30 members paid full-price so that 15 members could receive a discount. This means that 30 people paid $450.00 per share and 15 members paid $225.00 per share.
I ask you: How cool is that?
Answer: Very.

C & I had dinner with my mother over the weekend. The whole time they were talking food politics I had one thought rolling around my very tired brain: I have to get back to farming.

Listening to them go on and on was enough to make me cranky. Not about their conversation but about just how broken the food system is across the globe. They were talking about the farmers who have committed suicide in India.

My mother asked, what can I do?

I said, you’re already doing. Eat organically locally grown food.

She said, but that’s not enough.

I said, then convince more people to do the same.

It only takes a patch of dirt 10’ x 10’ to feed a family of 4. And gardening is not that hard. Throw some starts in the ground. Maybe amend the soil now and then. Water the plants. And voila. Food.
When I farmed I was amazed time and again that a little tiny seed could yield a head of broccoli, or cabbage, or lettuce. Have you ever seen a carrot seed? It’s like the tiniest thing ever. And a month after sowing the darn thing, you’ve got delicious carrots.

Ok. My point here is this: my roommate is an awesome person who puts up with my many moods and she put organic food into the hands of a lot of people this season.


Thank you C.

Robot Dreams by Sara Varon

If you’re not into graphic novels or books for young readers, by all means please take your mouse and click away from this blog at once. No reason to waste precious time here.

My brother is dating a woman who has a 5-year-old son. When I met the boy while we were on vacation I nicknamed him the “Mom-bird,” because every two minutes he’d say, “Mom?” even when he was seated 2 feet from her. Sometimes I'd been in the kitchen, his mother would be on the porch, he'd be upstairs in his room building lLeegos and I'd hear a small, "Mom?" The interesting thing he wasn't so much asking a question as declaring himself as an extension of her -- her dependent, and seeking re-assurance that she was still within earshot. He's a total fledgling at this stage in his life.
I brought the Mom-bird two presents. A box of Legos and Robot Dreams.
I have a policy of reading all books I plan to pass along to young readers. Mainly I want to vet the content. This is not to say I would not give a young person a book with objectionable content, it’s just that I better know that’s what I’m doing beforehand which gives me time to prepare for an argument/discussion with the mother (or legal guardian or probation officer, etc)
Robot Dreams, according to the First Second catalog, is intended for readers age 8 and up.
As I “read” the book on the subway I laughed out loud and thought that an adult in the proper frame of mind would love this story. And I thought screw all these cranky, miserable commuters. (Perhaps more people should read funny books while commuting if only to remove that dull gray sheen from their eyes.) I don’t want to give anything away but the panels where the dog ended up puking after eating ants with ant eaters was just plain awesome.
The best way for me to describe Robot Dreams:

       Wordless tenderness that is absolutely brilliant.
I’m not sure Varon will be able to repeat the success she’s exhibited here. I’m not talking about book sales, or an Amazon ranking, I’m talking about telling a terrific story without using words. (There’s something I’ll never be able to do. Ever.) As with all illustrators she's got a style that's all her own and here she's pitch perfect.

If you know a youngster who likes to curl up with a good graphic novel (or just plain likes a great story) you might want to consider sending him/her a copy of this book.