Tag Archives: Spirituality

All Beings Everywhere

Like you, I had to choose a user name when I joined WordPress.  I tried “Brucio” but that was already taken.  Maybe I would have to go with”Brucio47″ to get the name accepted.  And I sure didn’t want that.  Part of the reason I started writing was to express ever more parts of what is both uniquely me and also inherent in all of us -47 made me cringe.

So … what word or words sing to me, I asked.  For a few minutes nothing came, and I was strangely okay with that.  I’ve learned to trust myself that ideas will be revealed.  And on June 15 or so, they did.  “All beings everywhere.”  May I honour them all – human, animal, insect.  And beyond that.  The Buddha described people in various ways.  Pairs of words that pointed to the beauty of us all.  I’d like to share his ideas with you, and see what bubbles up from me, so I may embrace each of God’s creatures.  Here goes:

All beings near and far

All beings known and unknown

All beings born and unborn

All beings from the north, south, east and west

All beings happy and unhappy

All beings enlightened and unenlightened

All beings male and female

All beings young and old

All beings physical and non-physical

All beings well and infirm

All beings “attractive” and “unattractive”

All beings here and there

All beings wealthy and poor

All beings of the land, air and water

All beings of the universe

All beings warm-blooded and cold

All beings strong and weak

All beings timid and brave

All beings assertive and withdrawn

All beings calm and anxious

All beings fashionable and unfashionable

All beings cool and nerdy

All beings fast and slow

All beings eloquent and tongue-tied

All beings sensitive and insensitive

All beings kind and cruel

All beings comfortable and in pain

All beings white, brown and black

All beings industrious and lazy

All beings intelligent and a little slow

All beings spontaneous and reticent

All beings able and disabled

All beings sighted and blind

All beings free and enslaved

All beings living in houses, apartments, group homes, and on the street

All beings worldly and local

All beings cold and warm

All beings fit and unfit

All beings fat and thin

All beings with hair black, brown, red, and none at all

All beings mobile and immobile

All beings generous and hoarding

All beings right-handed and left-handed

All beings who dance and those who don’t

All beings well fed and hungry

All beings included and excluded

All beings who say “yes” and those who say “no”

All beings who deserve love

All beings who want to be happy

All beings who suffer

All beings

 

 

 

 

 

 

Heaven and Hell

The great seventeenth century Japanese Rinzai Zen master Hakuin was once approached by a samurai warrior who asked Hakuin to explain heaven and hell to him. 

Hakuin looked up at the samurai and asked disdainfully, “How could a stupid, oafish ignoramus like you possibly understand such things?”  The samurai started to draw his sword and Hakuin chided, “So, you have a sword.  It’s probably as dull as your head!” 

In a rage, the proud warrior pulled out his sword, intending to cut off Hakuin’s head.  Hakuin stated calmly, “This is the gateway to hell.”

The startled samurai stopped, and with appreciation for Hakuin’s cool demeanour, sheathed his sword.  “This is the gateway to heaven,” said Hakuin softly.

Softly it is, I believe.  It’s a way of living with space around every word, thought and deed.  Room to breathe.  Often when I’m meditating, the breaths become so quiet that I don’t hear the air moving in and out.

Sometimes it’s the eyes of one meeting those of the other.  It could be for just a second, or far longer.  The moments of true contact are blessed … and they linger in the air for both of us to feel.

Softness and silence go well together.  The horizontal life of progressing towards a goal falls away before the vertical life of now.  In that precious instant, there is nowhere to go and nothing to do.  Later there’ll be time for making progress.

The brandished sword hurts the swordsman, cuts him to the quick.  All is tight, from the creased forehead to the clenched fingers to the contracted heart.  My anger hurries me away to what’s next.  It closes my eyes from true seeing.  It leaves me alone.

I wander in the world, touching antagonism and love, deficit and abundance, a wrenching belly and hands wide open.  My soul knows what needs to be done, but the rest of me may have lost the way.  And it’s all okay.  There’s no need to be better.  There’s no need for any particular thing to occur.  May I merely embrace all that the moments send my way.

Plato’s Cave

Plato was a Greek philosopher from around 400 B.C.  Another smart guy from history.  He reflected on what is real in life, and has shown us a new possibility using a powerful metaphor.

Plato asks us to imagine a cave, with a group of prisoners facing the back wall, their bodies and heads chained and unable to move.  Talk about a restricted view of life.  Behind these folks, near the entrance of the cave, is a massive bonfire.  Between the prisoners and the fire is a walkway on which other people walk by, carrying a varety of objects in their hands.  They cast shadows on the back wall, the only things that the immobilized humans can see.

If you can only see one thing, that has to be what’s real for you.  What if so much of our present day lives is just a shadow of reality?  Like gossip, small talk, complaining, winning and losing, better and worse, succeeding and failing?

The prisoners decided that the highest status holders among them were those who could best predict what shadow would come along the walkway next, or … seeing a particular shadow, be able to identify all its details of shape and size.  Those were the champions of life, similar to the ones today whom so many of us worship in the realms of sports and entertainment.  Could this all be false?

What would happen if someone released a prisoner from the chains (or they magically figured out how to set themselves free)?  No doubt they would turn around and see flesh-and-blood human beings walking in front of them, entities with a vibrant aliveness that they had never experienced before.  Would these beings be honoured and loved, or reviled and condemned?

And what of the fire?  Would the intense light blind them?  The heat fry their circuits?  Or would awe transform their faces?

Beyond the fire is the mouth of the cave, and past that the big, wide world … infinitely beyond those shadows.

What transcendent realities am I willing to let in?
What’s just too scary to accept?
Will I let my life be transformed?
Perhaps

Windows

You look out.  I look in
I look out.  You look in

I do a lot of driving and I pass by many buildings.  Sometimes I look at their windows … and wonder.  There are people behind those windows – making breakfast, having meetings, serving customers, sitting on the couch with their precious ones.  Folks who are really just like me, all of us yearning to love and be loved; to do well at something; to gather some creature comforts; and to have an impact, perhaps beyond our lifetimes.  At night, I often peer in at these lives and see those human beings moving around, or maybe sitting still.  And it’s like they’re friends.

At home on Hallowe’en, I turn the light out in our computer room and watch the kids coming up the driveway, all fancied up as storybook princesses or the latest superheroes.  What are your lives like, young ones?  Thank you for coming to my door.

Just as I’m looking, so are you.  What do you see inside that man who’s driving a Honda CRV named Hugo?  Or that scary guy dressed up for his trick-or-treaters?  Do you get a glimpse of what’s within?  I hope so.

I remember a bed and breakfast that Jody and I stayed at, near Bayfield, Ontario.  We were on the second floor of a century home, and I got to sit on the window seat, watching the breeze riffle through the tree outside, and lifting my eyes to the field of grain across the way.  Cozy.  And I was a part of what I beheld.

More recently, I was in an office on the 14th floor of a London skyscaper, gazing out of floor-to-ceiling windows to the sweep of the city below.  Functional conference room furniture.  Far less cozy but still there was a reaching out.

On our home road (Bostwick Road, that is), I love waving to the cars approaching.  Sometimes people wave back, and that contact feels good.  Often though, the oncoming tinted glass masks any trace of humanity.  I don’t wave, and that makes me feel sad.

The Retreat Center at the Insight Meditation Society in Barre, Massachusetts was formerly a Christian venue, perhaps a convent.  In the room leading to the meditation hall, there’s a large stained glass window depicting the disciple John, with his arm around Jesus’ shoulder and his head tucked in close to Jesus’ neck.  The look on John’s face is of absolute love.  I’ve lingered many a time before this scene.  There’s no seeing through the glass, but there is a seeing.

Windows all, holding the secrets of our multicoloured lives.  May we continue to look.

Christ the Redeemer

It’s a 125-foot statue of Jesus that looks down on the city of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil and its harbour.  If you go to Google Images, you’ll find many stunning photos of this wonder of the world.  For many years, its beauty has held a sacred spot in some nook of my brain, but TV coverage of the World Cup has moved it to front and centre.

Christ the Redeemer draws forth a spirit from me.  Words stop and I just look.  I don’t analyze and I don’t compare.  Having said that, I guess that what I’m about to say is creating words and suggesting an analysis.  But whatever I say will fall short of the silence.  That’s okay.  I’ll just point to something that’s very, very big.

Jesus stands tall.  He’s erect but without strain.  He’s reaching his full height.  I can live an upright life as well, neither swaying to the left nor right, as the world presses me to.  I can be morally true, responding to others in ways that honour their being.

Jesus holds his arms out wide, his fingers gently extended, apparently needing no effort to hold the pose.  Horizontal.  I too can be level in my life, treating all people with the same respect, compassion and love.  No one better and no one worse.

Jesus bows his head, not pushing himself forward.  Instead, “I bow to the divine in you.”  I am not inferior to you, nor superior.  I’m not even “equal”.  You and I are simply waves on the ocean, one no more wet than the other.

Although I’m not sure, I thinks that Jesus’ eyes are closed, so that he can touch a power beyond, and bring it back to us frail residents of planet Earth.  I  close my eyes in meditation, bringing forth something beyond space and time.

Thank you to Heitor da Silva Costa for designing the statue, and to Paul Landowski for sculpting it.  Their work is a gift to all human beings, of any religion or none.

Namaste

The Best Home

The Buddha was a pretty smart guy.  My favourite ideas of his are called the Brahma Viharas.  These are four ways of living which together contribute to other human beings, and if practiced, shower great happiness on you.  Simple ideas, but not simple to live day-to-day.

I’ve grappled with these qualities for many years, to have them be my automatic response to life, requiring no effort.  I’ve had some moments of success and many periods of being unconscious to their beauty.  It’s a remarkable journey.

The first is lovingkindness.  Just as it sounds.  “Be ye kind.”  “Love them all.”  Of course, it’s easy to love some folks, the ones who are friendly and upbeat.  But what about those who have been mean to me, who have tried to stifle my aliveness?  In my better moments, love flows naturally from me to them.  At those times, I don’t feel angry at them for the injustice.  Instead I’m sad, thinking about the rotten karma they’re creating for themselves.  I believe the energy that each of us puts out into the world eventually makes its way back to us, in this case causing great pain.  I don’t want that for the ones who have hurt me.  They too deserve love.  “Hatred never ends through hatred.  By non-hate alone does it end.”

Compassion is the second trait.  Sometimes, when I see sadness in another, or low self-esteem, or physical pain, I feel my heart opening, and the “shimmering down” of energy inside me begins.  There are so many people who seem overwhelmed with the curve balls of life.  On our trips into St. Thomas, we pass the entrance to a psychiatric hospital.  In good weather, several patients are outside, sitting on the curb, some smoking.  I can feel the anguish.  It makes me sad.  There is a practice called tonglen, which asks me to breathe in the pain of others and breathe out goodness.  It seems like a self-destructive thing to do, but it has brought me great peace.

Altruistic joy is my favourite among the four.  Some writers refer to it as sympathetic joy, but that doesn’t ring true for me.  It suggests feeling sorry for someone.  I think altruism is a marvelous word … it’s not about me.  The Buddha taught that it’s possible to feel delight when faced with the good fortune of another person.  When I’ve experienced this quality, I just feel so light.  One time years ago, Jody and I were walking in Stanley Park, near the entrance to the Vancouver Aquarium.  I didn’t think we had the money to go in there, an attitude of deficit that has never served me.  On the flip side, though, I was astonished to see how happy I was for the folks paying the fee and going inside.  I still remember that vividly.  And I usually smile to myself when I see happiness in front of me.

Equanimity is the fourth trait … to let whatever comes my way be all right.  “Welcome everything.”  If I’m experiencing a difficult situation, I can work at improving it in the future, but right now what you see is what you get.  Can I feel fine when someone I love is enjoying the company of another person, rather than mine?  Can I forgive myself for the financial mistakes I’ve made?  Can I see all parts of the roller coaster as part of the trip?  I think so.

These four are a pretty good place to call home.  It’s okay to be on vacation for short spells, but home is where I belong.

Listen Fall See Act

Since the 1980s, I’ve collected quotations – about 6000 of them so far.  Every single one resonates inside all there is of me.  If the words don’t sing, I pass them by.  I’ve never kept track of who says what.  I just liked what the person had to say.  I suppose if I ever published all these cool thoughts, someone would get mad because I wouldn’t have listed the authors.  Oh well.

Way back when, I came across LFSA, as I’ve abbreviated the term.  I hoped that by making it short, like “this”, I’d let the wonder of it all percolate through my innermost spaces.  But it hasn’t happened.  And that makes me sad.  I’ve too often let the affairs of my world take me away from what’s important.  I’m writing about LFSA today, in hopes that it takes hold, and holds me tenderly for the rest of my days.

It’s a sequence, those four words.  What would happen if I let them flow, one after another?

Listen

Meandering through the events that come my way, it’s possible for me to stop and listen, not to sounds necessarily, but to something big that wraps itself around all the people, all the things, all the moments.  I “hear” that something when I’m quiet.  No picture comes to mind.  But there’s a stirring where my heart is.  The air seems to vibrate.  I have no desire to move, or move away from what’s here.

It’s not a quick thing, this sequence.  When I am present, it takes its time.  To listen is to float on my back in the embrace of the ocean.  I could look up at the sky all day.

Fall

I can feel a mixed metaphor coming.  From the mirrored surface of the sea … I am falling.  Not underwater.  The “no parachute, but then again no ground” kind of falling.  No fear to be found, just the gentlest of breezes coming up to say hi.  I’ve never skydived, but I’ve fallen, even if infrequently.  Nowhere to go.  Nothing to do.  Just watch whatever’s touching me deepen and deepen some more.  Closing my eyes.  Like those trust exercises in the encounter groups of the 60s.  Letting go and knowing that the group will catch you.  They will.

See

And then the inner eyes open without plan or effort.  The whole world is animated -from the Latin “anima”, meaning “breath”.  To breathe life into the moment.  But actually, that seems too active a phrase.  Maybe for the moment to be breathed into.  However I say it, the seeing reveals a beauty and grace that can’t be described.  The mouth opens, the heart quivers, and all that is beheld shines like the sun.  The moments linger together.

Act

Seeing like this, there is only one way to act … with love.  Anything else would be ridiculous.  No options, no doubt, no problem.  Love them all.  Light the world.

***

Thank you.  I needed that.

 

 

Drugs

I’ve used pills to get to sleep, and to stay asleep, for many years.  I may see myself as a nice little Buddhist guy, so majorly peaceful, but the truth is that I haven’t known how to handle the stresses of teaching.  I taught visually impaired kids until my recent retirement, usually going to about twenty schools a year on a regular basis.  Some days were golden, and some were not.

I worried so much that I didn’t know enough about eye conditions, and how to assess a particular child.  I struggled with a “To Do”list that never seemed to fall below 100 items.  I did my best to deal with the wide variety of personalities that came my way in the school system.  And I didn’t sleep very well.

So it’s been a regime of Trazodone (1) and Lorazepam (2) for many moons.  Even with the meds, there were some Sunday nights when I didn’t sleep at all.  Such overwhelming fear.  For part of the time when Jody was in the hospital in February and March, it took three Lorazepam for me to get five or six hours.

My spiritual life and my drug consumption tossed me back and forth in the wind.  “Should’s” abounded.  Really evolved human beings wouldn’t need all those pills.  But the more I’ve thought about it, the intense focus and the multitasking required in so many careers is just unnatural.  Society says “X” but my heart and body say “Y”.  And “Project Pension” has seemed so essential.  I really think that the insomnia of the last decade is not about any deficiency in me.  I bought into the context of achievement, of comparison with others, of the importance of knowing stuff.

As of June 19, my employment life is over.  So I took a step last night: one Trazodone and just one Lorazepam.  And the result, ladies and gentlemen, was four hours of sleep, plus a daytime dullness that’s worlds away from the mindfulness I treasure.  I wonder if you can see that dullness in these paragraphs.  Maybe I’m good at hiding it or maybe it’s clear as day.

I don’t want to live this way, not being present to the enchanting moments of life.  I guess, though, that I need to pass through days like this on my journey to pilllessness.

What I want is to be a large contribution to the people in my life, to be a beacon of love and presence.  And without the ego of “Look at me”.  So I travel on.

How about six hours tonight?

This

I often wake up scared.  It’s usually about items on my “to do” list that have remained undone for some time.  Last July, I hit my head on the floor during a yoga session at a meditation retreat in Massachusetts.  Huge pain in my neck, and soon I couldn’t turn my head.  I thought of stories I’d heard of Canadians incurring big bills in the States after seeking medical help.  So I just lay down on my bed.  After ten minutes of that, it was clear that I needed to see a doctor.  So I found the retreatant support staff member, and she drove me to Athol Memorial Hospital.  Two hours later, after X-rays and anti-inflammatory medication, we were heading back to the retreat centre.  The pain and stiffness continued for the next couple of days.

Back home in Union, I waited for the fateful bill.  A month later, the letter said I owed the hospital $1261.55 US.  Ouch.  So began weeks of correspondence with the hospital; with the Ministry of Health in Ontario; with Green Shield, my extended health provider; with Manulife, Jody’s provider; and with my school board.  In October, Jody got sick.  All I had accomplished concerning the claim was a cheque for $65.00 from the Government of Ontario.  My life beyond Jody went on hold.

My waking terror has often had a name attached to it: “Athol”.  Some days, I’ve let the fear overwhelm me with shakes and sweat.  Occasionally though, even in the midst of it all, I’ve heard the word “this” come out of me.   As opposed to “that”.  Over the years, I’ve used “this” as a code, telling me to listen inside to whatever is happening right now and to accept it totally.  It doesn’t mean that if something is difficult for me that I won’t work in the future to change it.  But the future is not now.  The cornucopia of events, people, thoughts, feelings and physical sensations is now.  What if I let all of that be what it is?  Some mornings, I have.

At those moments, it’s not that I suddenly turn all happy and peaceful.  No, the $1261.55 is still coursing through my body.  I still sweat.  But something has changed.  It’s as if the sea is still roiling and boiling, but way beneath the waves is a light.  I’m gasping for air on the surface, but I do see that light.  It bathes the moment with a golden sheen.  And somehow life is all right.  No deficit.  No yearning for “not this”.  Within the sweat … no sweat.

And then it’s gone.  “This” has become “that”, wanting it all to be different.  It’s okay, though.  “This” is just a visitor, but I know it will be back.

Church of the Grocery Lineup

I have an odd take on the word “church”: to me it’s any place where two or more people make spiritual contact, where they connect at a selfless level.  The Real Canadian SuperStore qualifies.

Yesterday I had just a few items to pick up.  Having accumulated two tubs of cottage cheese, two plastic boxes of blueberries, six red peppers and a brick of mozzarella cheese, I took an infrequent trip down the express lane.  Piece of cake to be on my way in a minute or two.

The woman ahead of me had her twelve or fewer items spread out on the conveyor belt.  But her box of tea bags was scanning with the regular price, not the cool deal she had seen in the coffee and tea aisle.  The cashier called for help on the phone but nobody was available to answer right away.  My cuppa friend glanced at the growing line of folks and gave me a tight little smile.  “It’s okay,” I said with a grin.  “Life happens.”

Part of me wanted to turn back to the customers behind me.  I knew they were there.  I wanted to chat with them but I sensed that I would be drawn into the play of hurry and contraction.  So I didn’t rotate to face them.  The woman on pause in front of me didn’t need that.  She hadn’t done anything wrong.  She just wanted to get the right price.  She tossed a bigger smile my way and I responded in kind.  It was our shared church service.

Several minutes later, after the correct price was located (my friend’s price), and points had been recalculated,  she turned to leave.  The “Thank  you” that flowed from her mouth to my heart went down deep.

My turn.  No price worries with my bundle of goodies.  “I’m sorry for the delay, sir.”  “Not important,” I replied.  Co-smiles.  As I picked up the two bags to leave, I looked at my companions to the rear.  The four humans there all seemed calm.  One was laughing with her neighbour.  Just laughing, not laughing at.

I like being in church.