My wife Avril and I are preparing to facilitate a meditation retreat at Unity Church of the Triangle in Raleigh this coming Saturday, September 12. Preparing for a retreat, even a one-day, is still a big deal to me. I don't take anything for granted and try not to recycle the same old schedule or an old, stale talk. Each time is different, each retreat and each moment of it are unique. Sometimes I don't know what the theme will be until the morning the retreat starts. This time, I'm lucky: I knew what our theme would be yesterday morning, a whole 6 days ahead. With great synchronicity, the minister at UCT had that exact same theme as the subject of his lesson yesterday and he kindly put in a plug for the retreat. He also referred to me as "our resident guru" on mindfulness and insight meditation, and I nearly hid my head in my hands.
I believe I'm so sensitive about anyone referring to me as a "guru" because I've had the good fortune to spend time with a few. The word "guru" refers to an individual who has the unusual capacity to let you see yourself exactly as you are, to hold the space of Divine Being wide open so you are invited to step in. I know the real thing; I may be a good teacher, but I'm no guru.
My original Zen Master, Seung Sanh, was a guru. He appeared to me from out of nowhere, clear as day, while I was walking around Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts, and then abruptly vanished into the ether. He led me to the Cambridge Zen Center where I finally met him in a more permanent form. He knew me before I knew myself, held my feet to the fire, laughed heartily and readily, and had eyes that were vast, open, and completely still and unmoving. So does Gurumayi Chidvalasananda, a true Siddha guru with whom I've had the great good fortune to spend time as well. She reflected back to me the reality of who I was right at that moment and held the space so clearly that I had no choice but to feel and accept it. I've also spent time with Amachi, and had the good fortune to see the Dalai Lama speak to a crowd of less than 2,000. They all are human, they all have feet of clay, and at the same time they are all gurus. They have that ability to show us with absolute clarity the best and worst of who we are.
We've taken the word "guru" to mean "expert," and I'm sure that's what Neusom Holmes, the marvelous minister and Unity Church of the Triangle, meant when he called me a "guru." I really don't see myself as an expert on mindfulness practice or insight meditation either, but if he does that's ok. I just prepare, do my best and trust the Divine to be there and guide me. The Divine always obliges. Whatever I ask for, whatever I truly and honestly hold in my heart, manifests. I'm the side-show: I do my tapdance and soft-shoe and the Divine does the heavy lifting effortlessly.
I can be a bit more sanguine about this "guru" business when I remember Swami Beyondananda's "Guru Chant:"
G U R U
G U R U
G U R U
Gee, You Are You!!
That works for me!
Monday, September 7, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
Losing the red-tips
When Avril and I moved into our townhouse in 2006, our small back yard was bordered with a long row of red-tips. These were not your typical red-tips; these were Jack-in-the-Beanstalk red-tips, left to grow higher than the rooftops, climbing toward the clouds a little more each year. They were closely spaced, forming a hedge-row stretching from the inside edge of our yard out beyond our neighbor's yard toward the street.
Like all fairy-tale plants, the red-tips were magical. Birds lived in them, squirrels played keep-away, they were a magical forest for one of our neighbor's young children. They gave us shade and a sense of seclusion. From the window of my study on the second floor, I looked out into a copse of treetops. Their flower gave us nose-numbing fragrance every year. They also gave so much shade that our living-room lights had to be on during the day and little but shade-plants would grow in our back gardens, but I was willing to live with that because they gave us so much that was good.
Have you noticed that all of this is written in the past tense? You get a sense of what's coming. Avril kept asking for more sunlight in the living-room; be careful what you ask for.
Our first signal of a real problem with the red-tips came when I tried to dig a hole in our back garden and hit a nest of roots. The red-tips had been left to grow so high that the root system had spread out. Planting in the back garden meant chopping away at the roots more than digging up soil. There were other problems our neighbors had and of which we were unaware at the time: one neighbor had roots coming into her crawl-space; another had plumbing backups and occasional problems with electrical outages.
It turns out that these red-tips had been planted on top of a sewer-line and in very close proximity to underground power lines. In legal terms, they were sitting on top of two utility easements. An easement is something a property owner gives to someone else, such as the sewer department, to install a utility on her land and to maintain it. In our town in North Carolina, it is unlawful to plant a tree or shrub on a sewer easement.
Oops.
The first set of red-tips, backing up to the homes to our left, came out some months back. Our homeowners' association manager left her communication skills on the shelf and they were removed unannounced. There was a lot of upset from this. These red-tips were a fixture, they gave our neighborhood its secluded, "country" feel. The manger did what she knew was right: she complied with the law and took out overgrown shrubs which were causing a problem. Instead of gratitude, she got a lot of grief. What would have helped? A neighborhood meeting, perhaps; a detailed explanation of why we had to remove those red-tips; an opportunity for people to voice their displeasure and share their feelings of anger and sadness. For many folks, it's not easy to sit through meetings like that, and I can understand why our manager decided she didn't want to bother.
But this is because that is; this is not because that is not. Removing something beloved, even a shrub, triggers seeds of sadness and anger; not communicating triggers seeds of hostility.
Our manager learned from this, and when it came time for the red-tips behind us to be taken out we got ample warning. One of our neighbors, who heads up the landscaping committee, talked with us at length and together we explored options for creating more seclusion and privacy without infringing on the sewer and power easements. When the tree-cutters arrived two days ago, Avril and I were ready.
We said goodbye to the red-tips and sat on the back deck, bearing witness to their removal. We thanked them for all the good they'd given, all the beauty and shelter. We talked with the tree-cutters, marveled at their skill and teamwork, and thanked them for being so diligent and cleaning up so well after themselves.
The red-tips, the middle-aged oak and the gum tree all came down. I stood on our back deck and felt exposed, I could see directly into the street and people in the street could see me. No more coming out in my bathrobe to read the Sunday paper, I thought. I felt some shock and sadness at the loss, and gave thanks for the practices of mindfulness which have taught me that emotions are impermanent, to feel them and let them go.
I also have noticed over the last two days how much more light we get in our living room and how lovely that is. I've noticed how much more spacious our back yard feels. I've started looking at trellises to put on top of our fences and to let ivy and southern jasmine grow upon. Avril wished for more light and we got it. My study is brighter in the afternoon and I enjoy looking out the window and seeing the trees across the way. The birds who lived in the red-tips have taken up residence in our gardenia bushes.
We all adapt. The Divine lives even in our pain. Beauty emerges.
Like all fairy-tale plants, the red-tips were magical. Birds lived in them, squirrels played keep-away, they were a magical forest for one of our neighbor's young children. They gave us shade and a sense of seclusion. From the window of my study on the second floor, I looked out into a copse of treetops. Their flower gave us nose-numbing fragrance every year. They also gave so much shade that our living-room lights had to be on during the day and little but shade-plants would grow in our back gardens, but I was willing to live with that because they gave us so much that was good.
Have you noticed that all of this is written in the past tense? You get a sense of what's coming. Avril kept asking for more sunlight in the living-room; be careful what you ask for.
Our first signal of a real problem with the red-tips came when I tried to dig a hole in our back garden and hit a nest of roots. The red-tips had been left to grow so high that the root system had spread out. Planting in the back garden meant chopping away at the roots more than digging up soil. There were other problems our neighbors had and of which we were unaware at the time: one neighbor had roots coming into her crawl-space; another had plumbing backups and occasional problems with electrical outages.
It turns out that these red-tips had been planted on top of a sewer-line and in very close proximity to underground power lines. In legal terms, they were sitting on top of two utility easements. An easement is something a property owner gives to someone else, such as the sewer department, to install a utility on her land and to maintain it. In our town in North Carolina, it is unlawful to plant a tree or shrub on a sewer easement.
Oops.
The first set of red-tips, backing up to the homes to our left, came out some months back. Our homeowners' association manager left her communication skills on the shelf and they were removed unannounced. There was a lot of upset from this. These red-tips were a fixture, they gave our neighborhood its secluded, "country" feel. The manger did what she knew was right: she complied with the law and took out overgrown shrubs which were causing a problem. Instead of gratitude, she got a lot of grief. What would have helped? A neighborhood meeting, perhaps; a detailed explanation of why we had to remove those red-tips; an opportunity for people to voice their displeasure and share their feelings of anger and sadness. For many folks, it's not easy to sit through meetings like that, and I can understand why our manager decided she didn't want to bother.
But this is because that is; this is not because that is not. Removing something beloved, even a shrub, triggers seeds of sadness and anger; not communicating triggers seeds of hostility.
Our manager learned from this, and when it came time for the red-tips behind us to be taken out we got ample warning. One of our neighbors, who heads up the landscaping committee, talked with us at length and together we explored options for creating more seclusion and privacy without infringing on the sewer and power easements. When the tree-cutters arrived two days ago, Avril and I were ready.
We said goodbye to the red-tips and sat on the back deck, bearing witness to their removal. We thanked them for all the good they'd given, all the beauty and shelter. We talked with the tree-cutters, marveled at their skill and teamwork, and thanked them for being so diligent and cleaning up so well after themselves.
The red-tips, the middle-aged oak and the gum tree all came down. I stood on our back deck and felt exposed, I could see directly into the street and people in the street could see me. No more coming out in my bathrobe to read the Sunday paper, I thought. I felt some shock and sadness at the loss, and gave thanks for the practices of mindfulness which have taught me that emotions are impermanent, to feel them and let them go.
I also have noticed over the last two days how much more light we get in our living room and how lovely that is. I've noticed how much more spacious our back yard feels. I've started looking at trellises to put on top of our fences and to let ivy and southern jasmine grow upon. Avril wished for more light and we got it. My study is brighter in the afternoon and I enjoy looking out the window and seeing the trees across the way. The birds who lived in the red-tips have taken up residence in our gardenia bushes.
We all adapt. The Divine lives even in our pain. Beauty emerges.
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