Wild Party for 50th Anniversary

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Those words are empty unless they are followed by actions. The shootings in El Paso and Ohio could have had some benefit if they had resulted in some positive actions. How bad do things have to get before gun laws will change? How long do things have to change before schools change their “core curriculum” to one that includes the love of fellow humans, other beings and the earth? I’m frightened to go to a gay pride festival next weekend. Might there be another shooter there? Will be all be homebound given the danger of public places?

We made it!!! 50 years of matrimony. It was touch and go (what does that mean?).

Anyway, we had an elaborate celebration. All the invited guests came (Linda and Kim). I bought sunflowers and Joan gave us sunflowers. And the gourmet meal (ice cream, blueberries, and banana not shown). Here are some pictures of the wild party.

Reality and Imagination

Spent the day with Norman Fischer at his dharma talk and workshop. He spoke about imagination in zen. I like the way he spoke of imagination as what is needed to approach reality, but I'd go a step further and eliminate this idea of reality altogether. Whose reality? I think we'd do better just admitting that we each have created a world. Period.

This is my last day of not being married for 50 years. It is odd to imagine having other people as teachers or even wives. I don't know if other people do this. Or even if you are in a parking lot and you wonder what it would be like to have a different car than the one you have. I'd rather have my dream car, which is the Mercedes Jeep. As to teachers, it is a rather tricky business. Do I want this teacher or that teacher? Norman Fischer would refuse to be a teacher but rather called himself a friend. The real teacher one has is themselves. And especially the mistakes that one makes is the ultimate teacher (if we don't repeat them too many times).

But I would almost choose my wife of 49 and 364/365 years except that she reads my mind too often. So I almost don't need to think because she's thinking of the same thing. But actually, this is good because someday I might stop thinking and then I can ask her what I would have thought of if I could think. So, unless something changes in the next 83 minutes, I think it will be great to make it to 50.

I've gone about a week now with nine meals a week. It seems like it would be torture as we think we need to eat every few hours, but really it gives me a lot of energy. People didn't eat three meals until the 1700s. Ancient Romans ate one meal a day. Hunter/gatherers ate less often than that. I don't think our bodies are meant to eat and digest continually.

I do need to remind myself to drink more water. The drink of the gods.

Stories and Fences

I am confused. In Zen we talk a lot about stories and how our stories are made up by our minds. My story might be a world is for me, or against me. My story might be that I’m a weakling or a strongling. If there is a reality (which I doubt) then we probably can’t see it.

Imagine a large donut. Is there one view of it that is truer than another? I don’t know.

I’m a little bored with “life as it is.” After two years of watching a train wreck on CNN I’m feeling the need for a little fantasy.

But fantasy is more than making things up. Sometimes it is a better way of being more literal. For example, describing our president as a man rather than as a beast might be less accurate.

Today I feel like I’m in the last stages of a marathon. In two days it will be 50 years of marriage. Many turns and twists to our lives. We lived in 5 different cities, had two wonderful kids and 4 wonderful grandsons, etc. Facts can be pretty boring though.

I remember as a kid when my closet was actually an elevator going to the land of OZ. I would make a machine noise and it would go down and down and down to a place where life was very different. Our cousin wouldn’t buy into our fantasy. Now he writes science fiction.

All the fences around us have been torn down and are being rebuilt. Fences make a big difference. You live inside fences and you tear them down and voila… your space blends with your neighbor’s space. Do we trust Robert Frost quoting the adage that good fences make good neighbors? What really was his take on that?

Renewing Vows

“My heart leaps up when I behold a zebra in my yard.”—Sears Roebuck

Well, we got close. Our 50th anniversary would have been in three days, but we are calling it off because of an irreconcilable difference. When I told her about the zebra skin baseballs she was very upset and said that was “bad bad bad.” “Why would you degrade a zebra into a baseball?” she asked. She had no problem insisting on leather seats for her new car/anniversary present. Is a cow less of a sentient being than a zebra? I guess we can return the car. $369,000.000,000 in merchandise was returned last year. Adding a Honda CR-V to that will be a mere blip.

“I refuse to associate with people who revere some animals and squish others. It seems they [the people, not the animals] are talking with a forked tongue.”—Tonto

Yesterday I wrote about a little itty bitty zebra. Today I will tell you about the miracle that made a believer out of me. That is quite true. When my dead goldfish that had been half-eaten by Malcolm’s cat was revived with a few vitamin drops, I made a vow to always love the divine and to be at her service. But when Zebe started growing by leaps and bounds, I renewed my vows.

Our house where the zebras and goldfish lived was here until a few months ago.

Zebe ate a lot. One of the reasons my growth was stunted early on was because of Zebe. When Zebe learned to talk, her (discovered sex) first words were, “give me food.” I gave her the mainstays of my diet: steak and bananas. She’d complain about the bananas, “What do you want to do, make me into a monkey,” and then she’d devour them, skin and all. I think she just wanted to give me a hard time.

I lived on the ice (not “on,” but eating it) that built up in the freezer of our ancient Frigidaire. Sometimes berries would melt onto the ice and give it a good flavor. Getting the ice out was always a challenge. I used a rusty screwdriver that I found in the back coach house in the photo above.

My son is named Josh, and he continually joshes me. I can’t figure out why. His present dilemma is that water is dripping into his electrical box and he wants to fix it himself. And gallons of water came into his car and he had to use his shop vac to vacuum it out. Then I was sent this. A handyman finally does something that makes sense.

Electrical genius

So here’s what sometimes happens when you mail-order one zebra. You need to specify “one virgin zebra.”

Zebras after their release

Sears' Zebras

Sears used to sell zebras. Once upon a time. It was their policy to sell anything that people wanted. Almost.

Anyway, as a kid, I was hard to please. I had everything. Everything, that is, but a zebra. And I thought a zebra was just what I needed to make my life complete because we also had lots of flies, and flies don’t like zebras because their stripes freak them out. Go ahead, Google it, if you don’t believe me.

So, I was about six. It was the early 50s, and we had a big back yard. One day I came home from school and a little zebra was in our back yard, eating our unmoved grass. I decided to call it Zebe, and, with a carrot in my hand, I called Zebe.

Did you know that zebras like to walk backward? They aren’t the best at turning around. They might do that if a lion was chasing them, but when it is a six-year-old kid with a carrot, they just walk backward.

So Zebe finally made his/her way over to me. I wasn’t sure how to tell the difference then. And Zebe saw the carrot and went for it, and my hand as well. Luckily I was a pretty fast thinking kid and I threw the carrot up in the air. Zebe caught it in mid-air.

That was cool so I ran in the house and got a baseball. Finally, I had found a friend to play catch with.

But Zebe kept eating my balls, one after another.

I came in the house and told my mom to call Sears and complain. I thought, in a just world, that Sears should replace the baseballs since it didn’t say in Zebe's instruction book not to play catch with it.

Here’s the conversation I overheard:

Mom: Hello, we just received a zebra and it has been eating baseballs.

Sears: We do warranty our products. And we do sell the finest zebras in the world.

Mom: My son is very sad after losing all his balls. How quickly can you replace them?

Tea tray to hold zebra balls

Sears: Those balls are $2.99 each. My supervisor says you need the special balls made of zebra hide. Zebras won’t eat those.

Mom: We don’t feel we should have to pay for them. We are entitled to free balls, given that there was a problem with your zebras.

Sears: Ok, we’ll send you one ball free. But after that, we can’t both stay in business and provide free balls.

Mom: (As she slammed down the phone). Thank you!

The next thing we knew, a zebra ball flew threw our picture window. That was fast, I thought.

I took the ball into the back yard and threw it at Zebe. He/she backed up to it and sniffed it. Did you know that when zebras sniff, it is like a hurricane? Anyway, Zebe sniffed the zebra ball, and upon realizing what it was, shed tears from him/her eyes. Pools of tears, enough to drench my tennis shoes.

Tomorrow: Why is Zebe growing so fast?

Almost a Winner

I told my wife that I was just going to make things up. I think our president if we want to call him that, has given us all permission to make things up. Unlike a traditional muse, she told me that it sounded boring. She’s really been a good muse for 50 years, always telling me the truth rather than what I wanted to hear.

As I sat this morning, I thought about this car that had backed into me at Central Market. It was a large shiny black SUV, and mine was a small SUV. The driver didn’t hurt me, but he smashed the passenger side of my car to the point that a passenger would be no longer.

I counted to ten. I didn’t want to get out of the car and start yelling at the guy. I wanted to remember that he’s a human being too, and he probably feels terrible enough that he ruined my car. He was an old man with a mustache that was well-waxed. He had a cream-colored cowboy hat and was well-dressed with tight-fitting jeans that had silver stars on the pockets.

I asked him for his driver’s license. He mumbled something and went back to his car. I could see him opening his attache case on his front seat. He reached in and grabbed a handful of 1000 dollar bills. Here, he said, this should take care of that. He didn’t say, “I’m sorry,” and didn’t seem to have regrets. He probably used the money to buy himself out of most unpleasant situations like someone else we know.

I felt well-compensated for my 9-year old car that I was sure was totaled. I looked at the money and the next thing I knew, he was quickly driving away.

Later that day I went to deposit the money into my bank. First, the teller called over the assistant manager, who called over the manager, who said, “wait here,” and a policeman came rushing into the bank. “Where did you get this money,” he said. I told them the story and they said, “we are looking for that guy. Do you have his license number? What kind of car did he have? Did you get his name?”

The bills weren’t worth the paper they were printed on. Where I thought I had cleaned up, and an unfortunate event turned out to be fruitful, I now faced my stupidity for accepting these poorly printed counterfeit bills. They even all had the same serial numbers, the teller pointed out to me.

P.S. I’m at the beginning of a zen practice period. I’m going to eat 9 meals a week and make one writing or drawing a day. Here’s my first meal.

Kerbey Lane, Austin, Texas (Vege breakfast w/gluten-free pumpkin pancakes, scrambled tofu and soyage)

You Must Not Be Any Good

I phoned my painting teacher after receiving three rejections in one day. I wanted him to say they were stupid imbeciles. Instead, he said, “you must not be any good.”

I had read the Rilke letters a couple of years earlier, but I certainly didn’t get it then how risky it was to have my ego rely on the opinion of others. More than dangerous, it is a no-win proposition. If people like what you do, you could quickly abandon your internal compass and just rely on them. And if they rejected what you do, you could either give up or change your work to try to please them. Why didn’t I follow the sage advice from my writing professor, “listen to everyone and believe no one."

I once asked Peter Saul who was visiting our college if he’d change his direction if none of his paintings were selling. Instantly, he answered. I was dismayed. I felt gratitude a few years later when I had teaching jobs, and my livelihood didn’t depend on someone else’s tastebuds.

I was struck in the last year when someone asked what you were about from the vantage point of a distant observer. The person who says they want to do this or that, but isn’t working toward that end is a fraud of sorts. If they really want something, why aren’t they working toward that? Is it because they don’t have the time.

My teacher who so rudely answered me used to teach at several schools across a state. After 12 hours of driving and teaching, he’d find time to paint. Sartre was most productive writing each day after 12 hours of being a journalist. Anyone watching him from the sky wouldn’t doubt his commitment.

My wife is either teaching pottery, teaching tea ceremony, or learning about one or the other. Someone watching her might get pretty bored, but they wouldn’t doubt her commitment. That seems to be what Rilke was talking about.

As to my commitment, which is what I should have written about from the start, I have no idea. That’s for another time after I talk to the person watching me. What does she see? What will she say?

Way Seeking Mind Talk at Appamada, Austin, Texas, 4/28/19

Audio: https://soundcloud.com/appamada-zen/2019-04-28-dharma-talk-kim-mosley

I sent this talk to three spiritual friends who weren’t able to come. One made a comment about why Hillel spoke in the negative, standing on one foot, summarizing the Torah, saying, “What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor. That is the whole Torah; the rest is the explanation of this—go and study it!” The distinction of positive and negative commandments are essential to Judaism, but I’m going to leave that out of this talk. I do have a theory about this, but you’ll have to ask me about that another time.

The second gave me several issues that were confusing to him, one of which was that I wasn’t defining my practice edge. That’s critical to the way, and I added that to my talk. And then I realized that I had a small mind practice edge that I could work on, and a big mind practice edge that would have to work on itself. I’ll get into that.

The third person said what I didn’t want to hear, that I should cut out 1/2 my talk, say less about others and more about myself. I readily dismissed that, having already rewritten this so many times. Peg talked about giving feedback this morning based on a workshop she just led at the San Francisco Zen Center. I said something about how I had received this abusive feedback, and she agreed with my too honest friend. I realized I was using the stories about others as a shield from exposing myself. So I eliminated 1/3 of the talk and added more about my own spiritual growth. I hope you’ll ask questions after this now shortened speech to prod me into the further investigation of “what makes Kim run”?

I love the story about Ananda, Buddha’s sidekick and also the big beautiful dog at Dharma Rain in Portland. Ananda, the man, said to Buddha, “I think I’ve got it. Spiritual friendship is 50% of Buddhism.” “No,” said Buddha, “It is all of Buddhism.” 

My modus operandi has been never to fulfill an assignment. I felt an affinity with Moses when he was told by God to speak to the rock to get water out of it. And so to suggest to God that we weren’t obedient servants, he hit the rock as he had done before. Water gushed from the rock, but he so infuriated God for not following his instructions that he was never allowed to finish his 40-year journey. I had no idea why one of the college custodians called me Moses. Now I know.

So this won’t be a way-seeking mind talk, but rather a way seeking mind talk, without a hyphen. The way found me. I plead innocent. And I hope I don’t get to finish the journey. It is too much fun trying, and I hope others can have that aspiration.

Zen for me is a combination of a sitting practice, an ethical practice, a spiritual practice, and a philosophical practice. I know there is a book, The Three Pillars of Zen. I might have read it years ago but can’t remember. If these aren’t the pillars, they should be. 

Sitting is most important because it allows me to see clearer, like cleaning my glasses which my wife says I don’t do often enough. Stories become old, and I’m left with me. Just me. Me facing a wall. There is the zen story of the teacher who keeps filling his student’s teacup to the point it spills over. The teacher asks me, “How can I take anything new in my mind if it is already filled?

Part of this ethical practice has been my study of the precepts. I did this study at AZC once, and twice at Appamada. For me, the way of the precepts have taught me to look at the effect I’m having on others. Sitting provides room for my ability to foresee the impact of my actions. It also helps me notice how differently I feel when I squish a bug with my foot or carefully transport her to the garden. I realize more and more how I’m not a unique individual that has a world revolving around me, but rather a little part of an amazingly complex and beautiful cosmos. 

My spiritual practice has been an exploration of the non-material world. I grew up believing that there were only physical entities. Yet love and art did not seem to be material. As a photographer, I realized that there was a vast difference between the silver halide particles that sat on a paper support, and a photographic image, that possibly only existed in my consciousness. Love, too, was not material. What caused me to be attracted and/or care for another? What caused the way to make me a slave? The way itself is non-material. If I combed the universe with a fine tooth comb, I would not find love, or beauty, or the way. Does that mean they don’t exist? Some of the celebrated atheists, starting with Bertrand Russell, seemed to use that as part of their argument. Not material for them meant doesn’t exist. Or, they believe, if art, love, and spirituality can be explained as a physiological process then they aren’t real. I’ve come to realize that the material stuff that exists if it exists at all is pretty uninteresting. We think we are alive. But when we die, all that is material is a bag of bones. Nothing leaves the bag of bones. Were we anything but spirit?

Last is the philosophical practice. This is exceedingly important to me. I believe we all have philosophies that lead us through our lives. I don’t see a difference between philosophy and religion. Both deal with how we see the world. They answer questions about why are we here and what are we supposed to be doing. Questions like why do bad things happen to good people and vise versa. These questions are unanswerable. Yet they are essential to ask. In Buddhism, we speak of “Beginner’s mind,” that is really a great starting point for all these inquiries. It is really accepting that the answer to all these questions is “I don’t know.” It takes a lot of practice to get to “I don’t know.”

So how did I get here, or how did the way get me?

For the first five years of my life, we lived in an apartment in Chicago. My mom told those in the building to give me appliances and machines that were broken. One of the happiest memories I have is sitting on the stairs going up to our apartment and taking apart a clock to see how it worked. I couldn’t even wait to go back to our apartment to perform the dissection.

A classmate, Bruce, asked me to go to church with him when I was 12 or so. My mother said no that I couldn’t go, I was too impressionable. She was part of the conspiracy, using reverse psychology, to get me addicted. The next Sunday was Easter, and, I think I went to six churches. BTW, reverse psychology is also called “paradoxical marketing.” We do a lot of that here.

My grandpa told me he’d give me a Jaguar if I married a Jewish girl. When he went broke, I bought my own Jaguar at the model shop. Actually, my mom bought it. It was about 8 inches long, made of plastic. I painted it black and then put red dots on it that contrasted nicely with my dark green bookshelf.

I had everything I needed as a kid. My parents differentiated between wanting and needing. My dad would take us to the Museum of Science and Industry near our home in Chicago. We’d go to the museum store there, and the game was to convince him that we needed to buy this or that. I think it was his way of teaching us persuasive speaking. My sisters and my parents were exceptionally verbal. It was hard for me to get in a word edgewise, as the expression goes. And my mom couldn’t hear very well. I couldn’t pronounce words correctly, so I was mostly left out of conversations. Yesterday I was at the doctor’s office with a mom and three kids… a little boy and his two older sisters. That was me, that little boy. I can’t imagine how my mom dealt with all of us. 

All I wanted to do was to take things apart. I loved math as well, but the rest of school was challenging, especially since all my schooling through high school was at the Univ. of Chicago laboratory schools. What saved my life was finding a photo teacher there, Robert Erickson. Erickson was part of the Way conspiracy as well, teaching me to speak without speaking through my photography and drawing. That was when I was 12, and instantly I was a photographer. He was a fantastic teacher never telling me what to do. Or so I thought. Years later, when I was teaching, and he was speaking to me about how I needed to give students choices, I said to him that he never told us what to do. “You don’t know how much I told you what to do,” he said, laughing.

Too many good things were happening in my life to believe this is a probabilistic universe. I used to read a book of miracles at night at the U of C library where I went to do my homework. I so wanted to observe a miracle. Then I realized a few years ago that we have nothing but miracles in this life of ours. The wonder of us all being here, on Earth, at Appamada, caring for one another is a much bigger miracle than in that old book about people who saw the image of Christ on an old piece of cloth. 

Down the street from us was our neighborhood Catholic Church. It had a brick wall around it with no openings on the side of the street that I was allowed to be on. We were confined, as kids, to a 25-block area around the Univ. of Chicago. But we also were allowed to wander around downtown Chicago alone, so I wasn’t completely sheltered. I figured out that the brick wall surrounded the center of the earth. I guess it was Hell, but I didn’t want to go near it to see. Finally, years later I went to the church and saw that the deep hole to hell was now a lawn of grass. I did love the mass in Latin. It was so eerie and foreign.

How could I reconcile the contrast of my parents who thought that we no longer needed religion to my grandpa’s view that I should marry a Jewish girl? In fact, my father believed that the survival of humans on Earth depended on intermarriage.

In the summers I went to a poor little town in Oregon called Cannon Beach that since has become a vibrant big town. I worked at the horse stables, still there in some form run by Terry, the son of my boss, driving a stagecoach, running a burro ring, and taking people riding on the beach and in the woods. It was quite a growing up experience bossing around grown men, telling them not to run their horses. I was such a little guy that my friends called me “Mouse.” The Burro ring was the most fun because the local girls would come and talk with me. My grandpa would come from Portland every weekend, and we’d work together gathering firewood, fishing, and working around the yard. He would always let me do as much as I could. Years later, I worked quite a bit with Linda’s dad, Delmar Burgin, who is now 100 and going strong. He knew everything about home building and repair and would let me do it all. His job was often to just grunt when I was doing the wrong thing. I’m so grateful to the two of them for what they gave me both in terms of confidence and skills.

My father gave me (and many others) a way of looking at the world. Weekly, most of my adult life, I’d call him and complain about something. He’d somehow shift the complaint somewhere else, and we’d have an interesting conversation. Once he told me that you can never move too slowly. I worked with my students on this one for a week, then called my dad back. Dad, I proudly said, we figured it out. What, he said. What you said last week, that you can never move too slowly. “What,” he said, “I’ve never heard anything so stupid.” That was my dad.

I was neither part of a Jewish community or a Christian community. 

My dad rarely spoke about Judaism, overtly, that is. He was convinced that his family’s best option was assimilation. He even insisted that my sister Gail joined the local church when she moved to Louisiana. 

When my mother’s uncle, the rabbi Lewis Browne,  decided that all religions were mainly the same and gave up being rabbi, the whole family followed and left most of their religious practice behind. Leaving Jewish spiritual practice behind became the norm for many not only in the United States but also in Israel.

My two sisters, Gail and Sandy, were my guides to growing up. In fact, they would often say in unison, “Grow up a little, will ya.” Gail understood me. She’d always be available to talk, especially about my frequent questions about girls. She even taught me to dance, which I never learned to do very well—partly because she mistakenly taught me the steps in reverse from what the guy should do. When a girlfriend invited me to be on Chicago Bandstand, I knew it was time to end that relationship.

I want to get back to this Way that sought me. I joined a very liberal Baptist Youth Group in Chicago, went in the spring to a Baptist camp to whitewash the cabins, and ended up getting a job as a dishwasher there. During the breaks, I’d question the kids on their unsinkable faith. After one week I was told, “You really don’t want to be here, do you?” 

In college, I was exposed to Kerouac, saw Ginsburg, read Alan Watts, and was in love with Buddhist thought. Then I took a course which included William Blake. His view of Christ as a tyger rather than the lamb we made him into was quite appealing. I had several Catholic friends and was jealous of their devotion. But I couldn’t have it for myself because it seemed so intellectually dishonest. I had my art, and I had my family. But I wanted more.

In 2007 I retired from teaching over 35 years and then being a dean of Liberal Arts for 3 1/2 years. It was a good move, even though my dad made me promise on his death bed that I would neither retire nor be a dean. I summoned my mom, who’d been dead for 5 years, and she said, “Shut up Edmond.” My dad, being fatherless and lacking the proper psychological training, wasn’t allowed to give us advice.

I now had the perfect setup for retirement. I had a pension close to my salary, a house and a large studio on an acre and 1/2. But the only life I knew was as a student or a teacher. I was 61. I’m not sure how the Way did it, but I decided I would learn about Judaism or Buddhism. 

My mom had a little meditation instruction from a yoga teacher. She said to me, why don’t you meditate? She had me sit on the carpet and put together my thumbs and forefingers. Maybe I was supposed to do something with my eyes. I think I sat for about 5 seconds.  In college, a psychologist told me I was my own best expert. I told him, no, you don’t know my mom.

I met a rabbi who had a little congregation in a room in a basement. He gave me an exhibit of my artwork, and I started to attend his services and a discussion group. I couldn’t sing, and I had no background in Judaism, and I was utterly lost. At about the same time, I went with my wife who has always been fascinated with Japanese arts, to a brush painting class. There I met a couple, Will and Carol, who invited me to their sitting group. I started going every week and soon went to a retreat with their teacher, Carl Jerome. He had me sitting every day, counting my breath. Whenever I’d see him, he’d ask, “how’s your sitting?” I used to love that and also would have no idea what to say. He later left Zen to a Chan temple, and I started going there on Sundays. 

So how’s my sitting?

Carl, I’m beginning to think that my sitting is beginning. Before I was just there, on the zafu which shows us how to sit by sitting 24/7 on the zabaton, but now, after 12 years, I’m not just looking like I’m sitting but actually doing that. I’m finding more and more that I’m returning to relaxing or maybe returning to returning. Returning to relaxing my slouch, sitting upright. And returning to relaxing my mind, which means to let my thoughts in and out, imagining they are a river flowing through me. Before I was just letting them in and pretending. Pretending wore out, I guess.

After moving to Austin, I started up at AZC. I made some great spiritual friends there. That was especially important because they were so patient with me, such a rank beginner.  And I was new in town, hardly knowing anyone. AZC was good to me at first with Barbara and then with Kosho. And in my usual manner, I said yes to everything and was doing a dozen or more tasks there. Early on I took a day-long something with Flint, though I actually don’t remember it very well. I think it was sufficiently different from the rest of AZC that it didn’t quite register. And I wondered what love and psychology have to do with Zen. 

Finally, too many straws broke my camel’s back, and I started going to Appamada. For a while, I was just going on Sundays, Wednesday nights, Inquiry and Depth in Practice. At some point, for a practice period, I stupidly said that I would come every morning. I was just going to do so for the practice period. But I never figured out how to not come and sit. Flint has challenged me to see if I can stay away. Perhaps that is more of the Way's paradoxical marketing, asking me not to practice. It reminds me of Rilke’s question to the young poet that he should ask himself in the middle of the night if he must write poetry. Maybe if he doesn’t have that need, he should drop the entire idea and try something else.

If meditation was easy… if I could understand any of this, I’d quit doing it immediately. I’m a glutton for punishment, and I love challenges.

Here’s why my teachers, Peg and Flint, have been so valuable. Over and over again they tell me I’m wrong. I appreciate that so much. Last week I presented to Peg my latest before the latest sitting theory. She pointed out the errors in my thinking. She thinks my dog was not in a state of open awareness by the woodpile but was concentrating on the mice and the baby rabbits. And even with what I just said, she’ll probably disagree as she so often does. I appreciate endlessly how each of my teachers has been saying yes, but… all my life. 

I also appreciate Appamada. Henry Kissinger said something like the only place politics is worse than Washington is in colleges. Appamada is fantastic in that it does work. People are treated well. They are allowed to learn and perform to the extent of their ability. There is mutual respect for one another that I have not experienced anywhere else. One regret I have is that I didn’t come to any of my administrative jobs with this experience. I started to write, I might have tried harder. But Linda, Melissa, and Gary will tell you that wasn’t my failing. My failing was I should have relaxed.

In fact, I did a piece for St. Louis public television. I asked my family “what do I need?” and one of my kids answered, “to relax.” Another said, “to worry less about your kids.” I took a picture of them saying this, then mounted them on blocks of wood that were put into a canvas shopping bag that I had painted.

I had thought when I retired I would work for the rest of my life to prepare myself for my next lifetime. It wasn’t that I was a great believer that I’m a phoenix that will be reborn, but more that this seemed like a good practice. Also, I thought Judaism and Buddhism would be a reasonable inquiry about death, as was my sisters’ passing in the last few years. Then one day I realized that there is so much that I’m doing, and so much more than I could be doing that I’d forego that idea of preparation and just do things. I think the shift occurred when I was asked to be on an Appamada council, and also when I was “elected” to be on our Buddhist Action Now Council, even if I voted against me. These all seem like opportunities to make a little difference in the world. 

Two more things. I love the Torah and the Talmud. Especially the Talmud. It reminds me of all the conversations I had with my father. In Judaism, I found so much of my parents. Even the prayer we thought my mom made up and I altered. It was from the Torah (Deuteronomy 6:5), “And thou shalt love the LORD thy God with all thine heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy might.” My mom would say this to us and to the grandkids, “I love you with all my heart and with all my soul and with all my might.” I added that she should ask my name because I wanted to be sure she was saying the prayer to me. So that’s become part of our family prayer, depersonifying God. It was curious to learn many things from Judaism, for example, that “might” meant “riches” rather than “strength.”

I started to work toward a Bar Mitzvah, doing a drawing and writing every day on the Torah. I only finished about 150 days. Early on, I discovered the Bar Mitzvah was not originally an elaborate ceremony like it is today, but was automatic when a boy turned 13.

And my family has been so much a part of this Way. Part of me regrets I had nothing much to do with religion growing up. But part of me reacts, like my mom, with the heebie-jeebies when I hear people talking about God as a being. That seems so dishonest.

And both of my kids are getting some religion, my son, Josh, from his Jewish wife, Sarah Zwerling, who loves Jewish holidays, my daughter, who is head of the board for the school at Congregation Beth Israel, and my grandkids, who argue about God when I drive them to Sunday school. In the latest episode, I asked my 4-year old Nate where was God. At school, he said. When Nate came to our house that evening, I asked him if God was there today. No, he said.

Second. I love Koans. We study koans on the fourth Wednesday night of the month. Literally, they mean “public case.” Two monks are usually having a conversation. It starts out mundane, coming from the little mind, and suddenly becomes earth-shattering, coming from the big mind. Often, in the process, someone is enlightened. 

It isn’t a meal in Judaism if you don’t talk about the Torah. So maybe in Buddhism, it isn’t a dharma talk if you don’t discuss a koan.

Here’s one I wrote for this talk:

What is my way?

Returning.

Where did I go?

Nowhere.

Then how can I return?

I can’t.

At that, I wasn’t enlightened. 

My way is returning. This stuff I do isn’t entirely about relaxing, as I suggested. It is about returning over and over again to the job at hand. So I am washing my bowl. Am I wondering what I’ll have for dinner? That’s wondering what I’m having for dinner. So I return to washing my bowl.

Thursday I was timekeeper. I hit the bells to begin and end the zazen and the chants. I missed one of many bells in the middle of a chant. It wasn’t a critical bell, and I’m not sure if even Peg noticed. But I was lucky. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention to the time. I somehow looked up enough that I didn’t miss when our sessions began or stopped. But this job was too critical to rely on luck. My practice edge—that which is between me and the practice I’d like to have—is paying attention. It is returning more and more frequently to the task at hand. Waking up, as we say. Note: I spoke with Vaughn about this Friday in our peer-to-peer practice. I realized then that my real practice edge was something I had mentioned to him a year or two ago, about how, in a dream, I came to a steel wall and couldn’t find a door, and was trying to get to the other side. I guess that’s my big mind practice edge. Paying attention is my small practice edge. Joko Beck writes in Everyday Zen, “So let’s just sit with what may seem like confusion. Just feel it, be it, appreciate it.“ The absence of a door isn’t something I can do anything about. I just have to sit and wait until the door appears. Then I can go through it.

Next is the question, where did you go? The photographer, Harry Callahan, used to say that people would go on vacation and forget to take themselves with them. He meant, superficially at least, that their pictures were entirely about the place and not about the person making the picture. People think they’ve stepped off the boat, but really, mentally, they haven’t left home. You are here, wherever that might be. Always. And when you aren’t, you return. To your center. To who you are.

Next is more manageable, and maybe breaks a little with the koan form. “How can I return?” I merely said you can’t. So the way is nothing but returning over and over again to relaxing body and mind, just where I was in the first place.

I sent this version of the talk to a friend who also is not able to be here. She’s a therapist, and also loves to dance, sing, and play the cymbals for a band. She asked me how did I express my spirituality. It seemed what I was describing was mental to her. This is an excellent illustration of how friends can be so helpful. It reminded me of Reb Anderson’s essay on “A Ceremony for the Encouragement of Zazen” that Michael Sporer and I poured over for a month. Reb Anderson wrote, “Conventionally speaking, Zen students say, ‘Now I am going to the meditation hall to do zazen.’ However, the formal actions which you or I perform in assuming the traditional bodily posture of sitting medita­tion are not actually the zazen of buddha ancestors. Their zazen has nothing to do with sitting or lying down. These ritual forms which we humans practice are a ceremony by which we express and celebrate our devotion to the actual reality of zazen.” So zazen is an embodied practice, rather than solely a mental practice. 

In an earlier version of this talk, I spoke about walking through Central Market as being the practice. I told that to Peg once, and she said, “oh, a self-improvement program.” I was noticing that I wasn’t being very thoughtful about others and they were saying, “excuse me.” Really I should have been the one saying excuse me. Now I’m thinking of Central Market differently. It is a practice to return over and over again to the task at hand. Wheel the cart, avoid obstacles, get the groceries. Then comes the challenge. You were told to get pineapple, and they are out of pineapples. To add insult to injury, you go to the service counter to complain, and everyone is working on spreadsheets, and they won’t look up. Your choice is to get angry or to return to relaxing body and mind, and have gratitude that they are giving you time to do a little three breath meditation.

So here’s how I can do it, the next time I am frustrated and thinking of going postal. And if you don’t think I’m ever there, talk to my wife, Linda. Or even ask all my imaginary animals in our house.

Here’s how I’ll return. Let’s all do it. It just takes 10 or 20 seconds. First, I take a very deep breath. I let air into my lungs, making sure I bathe all the recesses of my lungs with oxygen. I hold it there for a second, and then slowly release it as if I’m saying goodbye to a beloved guest. Then I repeat this two more times, and I’m home free, realizing that they have other food at Central Market besides pineapple.

Questions?

Ringing

I went to the Post Office and, while there, photographed some postcards I was sending to legislators. After I went to the window to buy some postage, a young woman handed me a phone and said I had left it on the counter. I thanked her profusely, and thanked my lucky stars because the phone was only a few weeks old, and already we had become quite attached.

I put the phone in my coat pocket and went to Walmart. As I was checking out at Walmart, I started hearing a beeping or ringing. I looked at my phone, my watch, and my hearing aids. Nothing was ringing. I turned off the hearing aids. The ringing became quieter, so I figured it must be something in the store. I went to my car. The ringing persisted. I checked all my known devices again. Still, not a clue.

Then I determined it might be a psychotic episode of some sort. I’d google the hearing aid manufacture when I got home. No, wait, the hearing aids are off. If people can hear voices, maybe they can hear phones ringing.

When I got home, I made a phone call. As the phone was ringing, someone started knocking on my door. At first I thought it was a delivery person and that they were leaving a package. But as the knocking became more persistent I determined I better go to the door.

An irate young woman was there. She screamed, “you have my phone.” I had my phone in my hand and looked at the familiar image of a painting by Matisse that I had as a screen saver. No, I said, this is my phone. Then she said that her phone was in my house.

I said, “wait… let me look in my coat pocket.” Sure enough, it was there. I handed it to her and explained some woman had handed it to me, thinking I had left it on the counter. She said she knew that and had been chasing me from the post office to Walmart to my house. I told her I was so sorry. I didn’t tell her that, maybe now, I won’t need to hear a phone ringing that I can’t stop.

Still Gail

October 13, 2018
Confused About Death

I am confused about death. Gail was curious. Both responses seem to come from “not knowing.” Curious would seem to be a more Zen attitude.

This confusion and curiosity began over 100 years ago with a battle with Lawrence of Arabia. My grandfather, a Paris educated Jew living in Beirut was fighting with the Arabs and the British against the Turks. The Turks were trying to build a 1800 mile railroad to feed their empire. My grandpa was an engineer and was supposed to blow up a bridge. Unfortunately something unexpected happened and he died. Actually his body was never found, which is why my grandma had to come to the US to remarry.

The story goes that my grandma, upon hearing about the death, tore off her clothes and ran around the house wailing as Jews would do at that time. My dad was two at the time and never quite recovered.

My mom lost her dad to prison as a young girl. Luckily her new father was a gem both to her, and to me as the grandfather whom I came to know and love.

My parents shielded us from death. They had had enough of it. Actually the ancient Jews also reacted against the emphasis on death rituals that were an important part of earlier pagan religions. My mom would often say, life is for the living, which is actually suggested in the Torah where a funeral procession is told to wait for a wedding procession going over a narrow mountain pass.

No wonder Gary, my brother-in-law, was confused when I wasn’t responding normally to my sister dying.

Yesterday my wife and I had an argument. I told her that Peg had said that when we die we are unborn. Linda said that was foolish, we can’t go back to that state of being unborn. Then she said, what about a knot, what happens when you untie it? I laughed and said that was just my point. We are strings of DNA, tied in a knot for a while, and then untied and dispersed.

Part of my sadness is that death is always premature. Some say that Moses  died “prematurely” when he was 120. Adam lived to 930 and Noah to 950. Maybe part of our response to death is because of our tendency to grasp. You’ll hear how Gail didn’t do that.

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October 6, 2018
The Intensive(s)

My first dharma talk was supposed to be a way seeking mind talk, describing my spiritual path that led me to this point in time and place in space. Gail had promised to come. Then she took ill and I kept looking for a date that she’d recover so I could give it. Plan b was give it to her as she was preparing for her passing. Early on she asked me about the afterlife. I told her what I believed—that we live on both through the people we’ve touched and by the redistribution of our molecules. But I never gave her the talk. Her journey was too compelling for that. It took over my life, and became an intensive itself.

What I’ve really wanted to do for the last 10 years was a 90-day intensive. What I really wanted to do was to wake up in the morning when I retired 11 years ago and stretch my arms into the air and say to myself, today I’m going to do X. I guess it is 4015 days now and I haven’t done that. Crazy? I sometimes feel like a prisoner.

One of my teachers gave me the assignment of not coming to sit. I’m still working on that. Sometimes at night I say to myself that it would be so nice just to stay in bed. But one thing leads to another, and I come to Appamada, sometimes just to fall asleep on the cushion.

I visited Gail in April, came back for an intensive, then knew I had to go back to Gail. I didn’t get it then, but what we do is pretty much determined by what needs to be done. That’s why the Diamond Sutra can be reduced to the Buddha finishing his meal, washing his feet, and then sitting down on his cushion. That was his job at hand.

In May I went back to help take care of her. For a short time, it seemed that she didn’t need me, but I found stuff to do... and before long, she wasn’t doing so well so I stayed and stayed. Before we knew it, almost 90 days had passed. And she had passed, one of the numerous euphemisms that we used to describe her transformation. Funny how the other day I used the words, “my sister is dead,” just to make sure that the financial institution understood that we wanted her name removed from some accounts.

I was lucky to be able to come back to another intensive. I discovered, among other things, that life is one intensive after another. Thinking it isn’t so makes it worse than it really is. Someone called zen intensives “a manufactured crisis.” I suspect even the worst of life situations can be seen in same way, manufactured, that is, but that’s for another time.

As I look back on the whole blur, I’m feeling that I was caught in a hurricane. I didn’t think much about what I was doing or even what I was feeling. I seemed to be in the midst of things, doing whatever had to be done next. Gary, my brother-in-law, thought I should take a day off. Like the challenge of not coming to sit, I couldn’t do that.`

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Apr 12, 2018
How's Gail?

I guess people want to know how's Gail. When I came here three days ago, I was more concerned whether there was still a Gail as I have known her for 71 years. And she is absolutely Gail, which renews my faith that she isn't being altered by her circumstances.

I wished that she'd be more accepting of my Zen stories. Fortunately, she is no different on that accord that in the past, which contributes to my conclusion that she's the sister I've had and loved all these years.

Luckily, she is able to advocate and organize her treatment. This involves shots, medicine, calling doctors, and eating, sleeping etc. We talked about those unfortunate souls who are not able to do this, and also those who don't have a husband, a brother, friends and two terrific grown children to look after her.

Our parents were convinced that life wasn't worth living if they weren't able to walk, play tennis, and be independent. I think Gail is not of the same elk, which isn't surprising since she was never the obedient daughter. I'm thankful for that, because not only do I still have the same self-directed sister I've always had, but she has been an encouragement for me to not do as I am told. In fact, I've prided myself on never doing as I'm told—which somehow has worked out except in the Zen temple. (Actually it works out in Zen too.)

Friday she has a new cat-scan and then possibility some radiation along with the chemo. Her attitude is great as she sees this just as the job at hand.

Someone sent her a giant bouquet of flowers. Some of the petals are falling off. Several times a day I pick them up off the table and floor, and enjoy the endless abundance of remaining flowers. That is Gail. Still an abundance of love and beauty, yet with a few of her petals falling to the ground.

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May 26, 2018
No Problems

“You don’t have any problems.” That’s not only what Gail told me. That’s the only analysis she ever did of me (to my face). That’s from the mouth of a psychoanalyst.

And there is the story of the women who went to Buddha with 88 problems. He said he couldn’t fix her 88 problems but he could fix her 89th. “What’s that,” she said. “Having 88 problems,” he told her.

So one way to fix problems is to decide they aren’t problems. Suppose you have a flat tire. What’s the problem? Only that you want to get someplace.

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June 4, 2018
Transformation

At the time Gail decided not to pursue chemotherapy her doctor predicted that she would have six months, with three of them without pain. That was a little over a month ago. Unfortunately, late Thursday night the pain came. She has started her transformation, as my Zen teacher calls it. She mostly sleeps until she smells something cooking or a door squeaking. She asks, “What’s that?” And then she goes back to sleep. Starting today, she has 24/7 hospice nurses who are controlling her pain and other factors that are causing discomfort.

She feels so loved and appreciated on her journey. Unfortunately, this is not a good time for visitors. Julie and I (Kim) are here, and with the A-team of Scully (the wonder dog (WD)) who brings in the newspaper), Julie, Kim, Gary, Gail, and the hospice nurses, we are trying to create a quiet and loving environment for Gail.

Thanks again for your love. We’ll keep you updated on any changes.

Love,
Kim Julie, Gary and Scully the WD

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Changes
June 18, 2018

It has been awhile. I’ve been here for almost three weeks. When I came, Gail was mobile and most of the time sitting in her recliner. She said that if her life was just like this it would be fine. She was waiting for the pot to boil and wondering whether it ever would.

Laura, her hospice social worker, spoke of how dying is a process of separating. It reminded me of how astronauts must say goodbye to their family when they blast off. We had a discussion one night about how one month had passed of the six that she had been given, and that she hadn’t had enough time to rest. I took that as her wanting to separate. Yet a side of her still wanted to be all things to all people but realized that her energy and her time were waning. Gail added that she also wanted to get all things from all people.

Then she had a night of pain, followed by a few days of sleep. Just when we started to adjust to sleep being the new normal for Gail, she awoke out of a haze and relearned where she was and who we were. Slowly but surely, she came back, ending up with days of non-stop talking, laughter and smiles. All was well in Altadena.

Now it seems like she is more tired and a little less certain that she can leave anything until tomorrow. Daughter Julie talks about a course she is taking called A Year to Live and how she saw it as very abstract until her mom was given months to live. Now Julie talks about living as if she has to savor every moment because it could be her last. It seems that can be done joyfully, as Blake wrote, “He who kisses the joy as it flies lives in eternities’ sunrise.” Gail is doing that and teaching us how dying can be met with curiosity and gratitude.

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June 23, 2018
A Train Ride

Today I told someone that I’m in Calif. because my sister Gail is dying and she’s not doing very well. She said, “Oh I’m sorry,” and I told her that not doing well at dying was good news. I’ve been thinking about this business of living and dying, and how Gail is living, not dying, though part of this living trip is dying, the same as when you go on a train ride, getting on and off the train is part of the ride. Gail decided she wanted to redecorate her room. It was getting messy, and full of medical supplies and equipment. Though this might be her last train ride, she wanted to do it in style. Luckily making a room look good is one of my wife Linda's many talents.

Buddha said that the cause of death is being born, yet we are surprised each time we die. Maybe the real living and dying is more about whether we are in a daze or awake. Are we dragged by karma (our past actions) or led by vow (our will to make a difference), as Uchiyama wrote?

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June 24, 2018
The Great Matter

My niece Julie asked about the great matter. “Let me respectfully remind you, life and death are of supreme importance. Time swiftly passes by and opportunity is lost. Each of us should strive to awaken. Awaken. Take heed. Do not squander your life.”

What does it mean that life and death are of supreme importance? How are they important? What is meant “to awaken”? Does this mean that the Great Matter is life or death? And what is life or death? Are they simply points on a time line? My grandpa was alive until 1967 and then he was dead. Is that what life is about? It seems that in this vein one might pee in their pants in mortal fear of dying. In fact, their life would be no more than swerving from side to side, avoiding death at every turn. What a miserable life!

What would it look like to squander one’s life? Would this be to not strive to awaken? There is the story of the Zen monk who doesn’t respond to being hugged by the young woman. Is he striving to awaken? Is that why the old women burns down his hut?

Again, what does it mean that life and death are of supreme importance? Why? Is it for oneself to lead a good life, or is it for the Bodhisattva vow to save all being [singular is used since we are part of a whole]? Is the Great Matter simply to “love”?

Are our thoughts sustained empathic inquiry for oneself? Is there a oneself? It says on the han (a board in a temple that is hit to send monks to their seats) that time swiftly passes by. What is that about? Is it really time that passes by? Time flies? How could time fly in time? How do we lose an opportunity? Do “opportunities” have an essence of their own? Do they even exist?~

In 1980 my parents retired and moved to La Jolla. I went to visit them, expecting them to be waiting for death. I photographed them sitting under some vicious stuffed fish at one of their favorite classy restaurants. I soon discovered that they were doing anything but waiting for death. They were fully alive, even if their lives appeared boring to their teenage grandchildren.

In 1992 I worked with a colleague who had stage 4 metastatic cancer that had gone to her liver. We did a project together about her journey. We discovered in the end that she thought she was living and I thought she was dying. Thankfully, she is still living. You can see a video of the exhibit linked to my website. (https://youtu.be/fPHYDJVf55A)

And almost a month ago I came to California because my sister was dying. Ha. That was a joke. Yes, she has “terminal cancer.” No, she’s not dying. She’s living. Or maybe living and dying are one, easily reduced to the word “changing.” Maybe we are all living and dying, with each breath.

We speak of time in funny ways, with expressions like “time passes,” “where did the time go,” “a waste of time.” We speak of time as an object rather than a means of ordering events. When we die, a doctor issues a death certificate. When we awake, the doctor issues a birth certificate. What else do these two life events have in common? Are birth and death a parenthesis or are they life itself? What is in between, if anything? (When I went to the bureau of vital statistics to pick up Gail’s death certificate, there were two lines: one for birth certificates and one for death certificates. There was nothing in between.)

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June 30, 2018

In a Snow Storm

A few weeks ago, Gail was at the stage of knowing that Death’s arrival was imminent but was feeling alert and joyous that he had not yet knocked at her door. Now it is evening, and it feels that she can see him coming, perhaps in a snow storm, even if he is still far away. This changes her perspective somewhat.

Her ability to multitask is limited. She was in the middle of telling a story to her daughter when I entered the room. “Get out,” she said, “or I’ll forget the story I’m trying to tell.”

This is different for me too. Where I was blown away by Gail who said that people are silly to be so fearful of death, now I see a different person who is weaker and not quite the jovial person that I’ve always known. She is still concerned for the people she loves and is making sure that she gives them what she still can. This is a symphony. The crescendos have ended and now we are all being let down slowly. The music isn’t over, but we don’t expect more than an ending that makes sense, filled with both bravery and remorse. Bravery in facing this change with grace, and remorse is not being able to perform this or that last act of kindness.

P.S. She sleeps a lot and when she wakes up, she loves being read your letters and emails, but she doesn’t have the energy to respond.

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July 3, 2018
The Wedding

I had mentioned before the Blake quote, ”he who kisses the joy as it flies lives in eternities sunrise.” Funny that he said sunrise and not sunset. Is the sun always rising in eternity?

I was agitated this morning, not knowing where we were. Then I imagined a wedding as a metaphor for our lives, with death being the final event.

We might think of the wedding as the ceremony, the feast, and the party. We think the hardy are those that stay to the end. I imagine the couple is looking forward to the gang leaving so that they can get on with their consummation. “Enough of the party,” they might say to themselves.

We’ve been through the planning for the wedding. Even lists were created about who’d be notified first (the “A” list) and who to invite to the memorial (finally that list was abandoned). Then there was the wedding, joyfully believing that the ceremony would be full of love and gratitude. The clock kept ticking, and it was time for the music to start. The bride and groom walked down the aisle. Everything was choreographed, everything, that is, until people got a little tipsy and started embarrassing both themselves, and the bride and groom.

Now only a few guests remain. The sunrise is soon to come. The bride is sleeping peacefully, occasionally waking long enough to take some medicine or a sip of water. This is the final journey, the consummation of one’s life as it merges into the world at large. It is sad as we wish it was different. It is beautiful as a new birth, a new starting over, a beginning rather than an end.

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July 4, 2018
Hari Krishna

At the Hari Krishna center in St. Louis, there is a series of about eight clay people, maybe four inches high. There is a newborn, a small child on his hands and knees, some grownups in various stages of adulthood, and an old man with a cane. There is a striking similarity between the baby and the old man, neither of whom can stand on there own two feet.

My sister Gail is now the baby. I hold her hand. It is a little cold. I check out her oxygen level. It is still 91, which is ok. I ask her if she can squeeze my hand if the answer to my question is yes. She seems to nod yes, so I ask her if she’s Gail. She doesn’t squeeze. I can’t tell what she’s thinking.

I didn’t know how to connect with her in this stage until I realized she was now a baby and how I’m not a whiz (like my wife is) with babies. Once I realized that my fear of not understanding her was keeping me from her I went back to her room and stayed with her.

I complained to her about her daughter Julie, who takes me and the dog on walks. She pretends that the roads in Altadena have a 2° slope. I tell Gail that she has taken me to Mt. Everest, and the slope is more like 45°. Gail doesn’t respond. I feel like a comedian who can’t see or hear his audience. Gail looks at me with a confused look. “What the hell is he blabbering about,” I think she is saying to herself.

And then there are the times when we come into her room and stupidly ask her how she is. Why do we do that? I expect her to scream at us, “I’m dying, you fools.” But no, she lies there with one eye barely opened, and the other eye half open. I only wish that she would yell at us, “How do you think I am?” And we could all laugh. But no, she says nothing, and our words are answered by her silence.

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July 9, 2018
In the Spaceship

I thought when my parents died I’d be an orphan. My Mom said when she was dying that she’d always be with me. I thought to myself, “Wishful thinking mom.”

At a doctor’s office today I went into the restroom and the auto sensor light didn’t turn on. I asked the receptionist why. She said it is an auto sensor light. I tried again. Still, darkness. Then she said, “Try the third floor.” That worked.

I had a sci-fi fantasy that when one dies they vanish from people’s memories. Actually my high school eliminates the deceased from class lists. I guess they don’t see the dead as potential benefactors. In any case, it scared me a little when the bathroom sensor didn’t find me.

My sister Gail is in a spaceship going through a narrow tunnel to another presence. She is careful not to move, else the ship will go off course. I can see her intensity in making her journey to the unknown.

She was so curious about the experience of dying. Now she is getting to do it. She is 150% focused on this task as being the job at hand. Her mouth is open in astonishment. She has left us, us as mere distractions to the job at hand. But she has not left the planet. Her body will go to science for some study, and then she’ll be cremated. Jews say that one should stay intact so they can return to Earth when the Messiah comes. Ha! She’s not going anywhere. She’s here in our hearts forever. Disease can’t take that away. Long live the queen!

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July 10, 2018
Sometimes They Don't

“Did you have a nice weekend?” So I told her the story of how our power went out and my in-hospice sis ran out of oxygen and how I had to drive to the top of a hill to use my cell.

So sometimes things go right and sometimes they don’t. A panel of economists were asked to predict what the stock market would do in the next year. The economists all had opinions about why it would go up or down. One economist knew better. He said with great certainty, “It will fluctuate.”

My sis is taking 3 or 4 breaths a minute. I know a zen meditator who claims she can do 5. I do about 17. When Gail’s breaths are far apart there are concerns after each out-breath whether it is the last. But so far there comes another and still another, albeit far apart.

So what are the life lessons here? Impermanence at her best? Previous behavior does not predict future behavior. Fluctuation might be the only certainty.

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July 16, 2018
Is She or Isn't She?

I wrote some time ago that Gail was still here. I was referring to my finding that my sister was still here in all her splendor. She could talk and listen and laugh. Now she’s still ticking, in the sense that her heart is pumping, but she’s not available as she once was.

So is she here or not? When do we stop being who we are?

Is alive and dead a continuum? Is she almost dead or is that like being almost pregnant?

She isn’t as she once was. So do we throw her out to pasture? She is taking her time performing an extraordinary exit from an extraordinary life. For once she isn’t able to be what she once was because she is taking a difficult solo journey. (Previously she acted pretty impulsively. She’d tell me she wanted a new computer. I’d tell her to wait for the upcoming model. She would go and get the current model. No time to waste was her mantra.)

Maybe wanting her to be who she was is just about me. Letting her meander the arduous path to her transformation is about her. I need to respect her state as she is now.

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July 17, 2018
The End

For days, it seemed that each breath might be Gail’s last, but she wasn’t quite ready to leave us. Finally, last night she quietly let the last breath go and did not take another.

A few days ago I wondered if I had told her what I wanted to say to her. I somehow didn’t think I had, though we had been talking for six weeks until she couldn’t talk any more. I let go of her hand and put it on the bed guard. She raised her hand up to grasp mine again. Is there ever more than this?

This morning I told my son, “Cherish every moment.” And then, later in the day, I heard about a dying Zen priest who woke up each morning and said the word “gratitude.” Then he would look around to see what was going on, and have gratitude for that, even if it was a pain that he was feeling.

This afternoon, I called to arrange the return of Gail’s wheelchair. The woman at the other end of the line had only met Gail on the telephone. She went on and on about how Gail was the sweetest, nicest person she had spoken to. I had her repeat all that on speaker phone for Gary, her husband. Everyone tells a similar story about Gail. We can all have gratitude for that gift she so generously shared with all of us.

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July 21, 2018
Preparations

I had imagined that Gail would someday be gone and I could get on with my life. Just as I was not an orphan when my parents transformed, I’m not siblingless now that Gail and Sandy are elsewhere.

Yesterday I told the woman next door to Gail that she had passed. She put her hands together and a single tear dropped from her left eye to the ground. I looked to my right and saw that some beautiful lemons had just fallen to the ground from her lemon tree.

We needed help planning the memorial. Karen and Kristie have taken over. Yesterday Karen came over to help. We so appreciate their what they are doing to make a beautiful memorial.

Melissa, my daughter, helped Gary yesterday line up a succession of B&Bs in Austin until his apartment is ready at Westminster Manor.

Linda continues to be both the calming soul, and the torrential organizer and cleaner. It is dangerous to leave her alone because another part of the house will get transformed.

Gary has been laboriously going through his files and photos, and reducing them to a few boxes.

Her son Alan generously ordered us the boxes and bubble pack we need. That will really help with the move and save us a day of driving around to get them.

Wordsworth wrote, “That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.” Gail continues to sing as her passing perpetuates this generous energy. Thanks everyone for stepping up to the plate (a baseball metaphor for Gary).

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July 28, 2018
The Memorial at 1120 Madre Vista, Altadena, CA

Gail,

In the Zen World, I’ve heard many times that the purpose of our lives is to learn how to die. You certainly figured that out. It was such a privilege to witness your flight into the unknown. You did it with grace, curiosity, and no regrets.

Last night I could only think about mustard seeds. A woman brought the limp body of her child to the Buddha. “Can you fix her?” she said. “Yes,” he said, “but first bring me a mustard seed from a home that has not seen death.” The mother visited all the homes in the village and then came back to Buddha to become a disciple. (She discovered she was not only alone in losing a loved one, but she discovered that she had a community of support. When I returned to Austin, I discovered so many here that had also experienced loss and hardship in their lives. I realized too that though I’ve lost my immediate family, I have a wonderful wife, kids, grandkids, brother-in-law, relations to all these people, and a wonderful community of friends here and elsewhere.

Gail, I hope you aren’t too disappointed that you weren’t able to come to your memorial. I remember you originally wanted to do that, but then decided that you didn’t need to because of the immense expression of love that you received before you transformed into your present being. You are very much here in our hearts and minds. So thank you for being here with all your love and splendor, and especially your continual smile.

Yesterday I had a haircut. It was my third one in Pasadena, as this is also the third memorial for our family in this garden. The other day one of my Zen teachers was talking about mirrors and how difficult it is to look at oneself. I was surprised as I looked at the barber’s mirror to see all the emotion in my forehead. It seemed to be a combination of sadness and worry. It was scrunched up and for the life of me, I couldn’t change it. It was like a tattoo of sorts, which I assume in time will go away. It was a tattoo that you had left with me.

You were so beautiful to the end of this life. There was only once where I saw those worry lines in your cheeks. I took those as an anomaly, and they soon went away. But the lines in my forehead didn’t go way. They stared at me for the entire haircut.

But how are you feeling? I’m so glad you never asked me that. You would say “dish.” That was always welcome. Maybe when I realize someday that I don’t have any problems, as you told me, the lines will go away in my forehead.

I think the opposite of having problems is expressing gratitude. I want to express thanks to Gary for allowing Linda and I to be part of this and future adventures in his life. I want to thank Julie in so many ways for being there from the beginning. What a lovely person to get to know and love, even if we would have never chosen the circumstances. And thanks to Karen and Kristie for putting together the memorial. What a gift that was! And thanks to everyone for being there for you and thanks especially to those here today to celebrate your life. We love you so much, Gail.

Your favorite brother, Kim

P.S. A bunch of monks were grieving over their dying teacher. “Do not mourn for me,” the teacher said, “I know who I am.”  Yes, Gail, you did. Bon Voyage.

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September 5, 2018
Which Ticket Window?

Dear Gail,

In Mexico City’s bus station, there is a different ticket window for each destination. One needs to find the right window for their trip and then stand in line. Standing in line means one’s body is touching the body in front of them, and is touched by the body behind them. Any deviation here gives permission for an interloper to butt into the line.

In the Intensive a few weeks ago I decided I was on the wrong bus when Judy mentioned that the theme was “beauty.” I’ve been an EMT, of sorts, for the last six months. Beauty? I thought when I became an artist 60 years ago that I could simply devote my life to that. And then this EMT job came up of someone needing me. When Judy said “beauty” I wanted to scream that beauty was for perfect worlds. In this world, we have other work to do.

In an activity at the intensive, we gathered in a small room. Jon-Eric spoke about the magnetism in organic molecules that tell us where to go. Others read about beautiful touching passionate experiences they had had with common objects that were initially not beautiful to them. I complained that there wasn’t time for beauty.

Then we heard the clackers followed by the meal chant for lunch. We chanted how the meal is for true practice. Something clicked for me as I wondered if the meal was just for physical sustenance or was there more? A meal can also be beauty. It is more than putting gas in one’s car. We chant that there are three forms and six tastes of food. There is sometimes the sound of laughter and banter during a meal, and other times, the intimacy of quiet.

When the Buddha-to-be was given the milk water by the big hearted woman, he was revived and replenished by the food, but may have been touched even more by someone caring for his life. Beauty awakens my heart. When I looked at the carpenter ants that visited me during the last meditation, I marveled at their phenomenal design encapsulated in such a small body. “My heart leaps up when I behold...” Wordsworth wrote 200 years ago. Being alive to beauty is being alive. The Bodhisattva needs a heart or else she’ll smash the poor defensive-less carpenter ants against the floor with the wood striker and then congratulate herself with her virility. Beauty opens us up to meet one another with generosity and love.

I might have gone to the wrong ticket window, but I boarded the right bus. I certainly like where it took me. Thanks for this Judy and Gail too. You were just what I needed.

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Visiting Gail/Gail Visiting

I’ve had two two brief interactions with Gail since her passing. The first was early in a week long meditation. I fell asleep on the cushion which has been happening too often lately and when I woke I heard her say, “I’m going to heaven.” Though she poo-pooed the idea of an afterlife, I was relieved that she had let go of the tunnel of dying or is it the unborn, as Peg called it. The second interaction was toward the end of the same intensive. This time I was awoken by the women next to me. I was on a cushion and she was on a chair. As she rose from her chair she kicked me in the ribs. At that moment I was telling Gail “no way,” complaining that the work she had left for me was insurmountable. I took the kick to be Gail saying, “Yes, you can do it.”  Thanks and bon voyage, Gail.

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Long Live Scully

Update: Scully the wonder dog went for two months of training before accompanying Gary at Westminster Manor. He was scheduled to come home 10/25. On 10/22 he had trouble standing up and was diagnosed with cancer of the spine. He was put to sleep that day. It was a sad day indeed and reminded us once more that the “best laid plans of mice and men” don’t always turn out as planned.

Expression

Birth Canal