On the Turntable

Back to sharing a living room with my LPs, I've found myself listening to a lot of vinyl again. There is nothing like the hiss as the needle finds the groove; the unselfconscious pop that irregularly marks time; the clunk of the returning tone arm amplified through the speakers. I've long forgotten how short the sides are. None of these packaged-by-the-hour tunes of compact discs. None of the 'bop 'til the batteries drop' of mp3s. Instead, every 20 minutes you have to get up, walk across the room, and flip the album over. I'm surprised at how much I've missed this manual labor.

On the turntable: "Lester Young" (Giants of Jazz series)
On the nighttable: Joan Halifax, " The Fruitful Darkness"

And Regrets? I've Had a Few...

These days, one of my favorite activities seems to cause me great pain. Every time I watch a Japanese film, I begin to badly long for Japan. No matter the film -- "Lady of Musashino," "Okuribito," or "Zen!" (exclamation point mine, due to all the drama)-- it causes me to doubt my decision to return back here. Now, I'm adult enough to realize that this is due to the fact that I have yet to establish any routine to ground me. Instead, I've passed my days in errands, tasks, and the simple act of waiting for life to begin. There is great peace for be found in meditating and gardening at Upaya, and on the yoga mat. But in 3 months, the only single fun thing I've done for myself was wandering the Tsankawi mesa. On that day, I was thrilled to be here. Most other days, I play the what if game.

Would another year in Kyoto have been so bad? Near the end, I was finally finding acceptance with the yoga world as it is marketed in Kansai. I could've gone back to simple teaching, forgoing the excess of workshops, and trying to ignore all the nonsense. I would've thrown myself more into translation. I would've spent less time in the hills and more time with friends in cafes or alone, strolling the city's narrow streets. I most definitely would've given greater priority to my training in Takeuchi and with the Omine Shugenja. These last two lost chances really sting when recalled, and serve as major sources of regret. Yet, that mantra of 'one more year, one more year' is self-perpetuating and can lead to an entrapment strongly bound by the laws of inertia.

Those who've followed me this far know of my great love for New Mexico, a love I expect will return. But for now it feels like revisiting an old flame who, though still a beauty, has lost some of her charm. And the mind naturally turns to the form of another, who, in times of better and worse, long warmed the bed.


On the turntable: '"Collector's History of Classic Jazz"
On the nighttable: W. Sometset Maugham, "The Gentleman in the Parlour"

Tsankawi

We sit on the edge of a cliff, watching the storm drift past. Once again I find myself atop a mesa on sacred native land, just out of reach of rain and lightning and thunder. Three of the four of us share Irish blood, so naturally our conversation leads us to that Emerald Isle, moving from there to Tibet, from the Bronx to Piedmont, CA. Across the ravine are the concrete towers of Los Alamos labs, birthplace of the bomb that flattened the city where my wife's people come from. I follow her eye line over there. Someday, we'll need to bridge this gap and complete the pilgrimage.

I later find myself alone, off-trail across this mesa topped out with scrub. It narrows to a dull, rounded edge, like the prow of a ship cutting across this ancient seabed. I sit awhile on a disembodied boulder, wondering what to call those peaks over there, still snow-capped this late in Spring. Brother raven flies over to check me out, squawking a greeting. The rain eventually drives me from this aerie, and I scramble down the rock face, leaping the last few feet onto the next shelf. There's far less wind on this eastern face. I follow a narrow white band as trail, passing beneath petroglyphs and yellow splashes of lichen. I find a cave and climb in, to meditate on the crystaline sand floor and dip into Nanao. I come across this:

Underground deep
fossil cave dark

you sit down
might be midday

someone comes in
you can't see him, hear him, touch him

still someone with you for sure;
is he friend or devil?

you don't care
all the same

you smile
he looks blank
I burst into laughter

no body
wave after wave

On the turntable: Julian Cope, "Rite Now"

Early Days in Santa Fe

...First month at Upaya. One night, I'm listening to The Beatles' "Revolution #9," and I'm amazed how the structure of the song is like the structure of thought. The constant background babble and chatter is the active monkey mind, while the repetitive chant of "Number 9. Number 9," is the meditator's attempt to harness these random, out of control thoughts...

...In Albuquerque's Nob Hill, crossing the street to the Satellite Cafe, I look in the wrong direction, right to left as in Japan, and nearly wind up impaled on the spokes of a bicycle that is attached to the front of a city bus...

...on the job hunt, filling out applications to Whole Foods and REI online, finding it dehumanizing and insulting...

...overheard at the Aztec Cafe, a remark about a cougar "sight/site" and feeling not entirely sure if it is about a place in the hills notorious for dangerous cats, or a bar filled with older women on the prowl...

...feeling early on that life in the States had me caught in that vice grip between what I wanted to do and what I had to do...

...first Sushi at Kohnami. Surprised by not getting oshibori or hashioke. Having to pay for tea. The owner's reaction to my Nihongo, seemingly put off. I found the latter to be a constant in my time here, most of the Japanese I met refusing to speak to me in anything but English, despite my persistence in their native tongue. At the least the owner of Kohnami had an excuse, the front plate of his jeep bearing the Taegukgi. "반말, dude"...


On the turntable: Gomez, "Split the Difference"

Weird Scenes Inside The Gold Mind

I'm not after mindfulness as much as knowing the self.

Obsession on Emptiness and Form. Astronomical black holes as tangible evidence of this duality. Spending a day in silence doesn't cover the cacophony of thought. The two Suzukis: D.T.'s emptiness of zen scholarship vs. Shunryu's form of practice. (Or vice versa perhaps?) Shunryu's sowing the seeds of practice in American soil, hoping some would blow back across the sea to Japan and germinate as revolution in temples there.

The way Americans overuse the word 'Master.' But who truly knows everything about something? No one I've ever met. We can't even master the fundamentals of being human. Breathing? Not from what I've seen as a yoga teacher. Eating? I see obesity everywhere. Defecation? The TV is loaded with commercials for irritable bowel syndrome, constipation, hemorrhoids. Let's save the word "Master' for golf, shall we?

Having children is an act of optimism.

Ken looks younger every time I see his photo, as if he is receding while I grow older...


On the turntable: Tounami Diabate, "The Mande Variations"

Notes from Upaya

I'm housed in a room called 'Tatami," which is a wide space over the offices. To enter, you need to express humility by ducking through a low door, then do a Quasimoto-like lurch beneath the 5 foot ceiling. The very first night, I smash my head into the metal latch that hangs down from the center of the door frame. It takes over an hour for the blood to clot.

One night in zazen, I'm obsessing on my desire for popcorn. Just after we finish sitting, I go over to the Querencia kitchen to find that one of the priests has just freshly popped some. (Cue The Police.)

Throughout the month, I'm enchanted by the colorful birds, mostly hues I'd rarely seen in Japan. They are a living palate against the monochromatic winter desert landscape. One afternoon I go sit above the snow-obscured stream to watch them. Time, and the afternoon, soon disappears. At night I'm serenaded by coyote song, their yip yip yips awakening me. I aurally track their progress along the stream below. Some nights they are echoed by the barks of dogs, apparent frustration at a cruel twist of DNA.

One silent lunch period, I find myself staring down into my bowl of quinoa. The cooking directions say that they are ready when the white DNA ring is visible. But caught up as I am in the concentration of the retreat, I'm hypnotized by the sight of the atomic element on display before me, momentarily having penetrating into the heart of reality.

One afternoon, there is a wedding. The bride is in a beautiful, though unorthodox, white dress. Like a geisha's, her dress was dipping in the back, but it didn't stop at the upper shoulders. Instead it hung all the way down to the small of her back. Traditionally in Japan,the back of the neck is considered the most sensuous part of a woman's body. In seeing all the way from nape to waist, I felt like I was exposed to secrets I wasn't privy to, the dark mole set against white skin, the knobs of vertebra leading downward to softer, rounder, fleshier bits.

The energy rushing up my spine, swirling around my heart, softening flesh that has been like protective leather for so long. Healing.

At breakfast, I smear what I think is green chili on my eggs, then, while expecting the usual blast of huevos rancheros, my taste buds instead are numbed by the taste of tahini.

All month, sitting eyeball to eyeball with Green Tara's dog (which I later learn is named Dominga, and belongs to Roshi). On my cushion in front of the painting, every day I'd find my attention drawn deeply into a different detail. Like the mind. Like life.

When I first started sitting zazen at temples in Japan, I loved all the accompanying ritual. Here I find resistance to it, especially the English chants. The Japanese use the phonetically (Sino-ized) Sansrkit. Why can't the Yanks?

As the snow continues to build up, I'm beginning to get worn down by the lack of color. The sudden glimpse of a blue shovel leaning against a fence is the most colorful thing in the world.

Watching guests do their training brings to mind how attached we are to habits. One guy does zazen in his jeans, cell phone still strapped to hip. A women does outdoor walking meditation with sunglasses on. Another woman in expensive designer wear looks terribly uncomfortable pushing a mop. But who am I to judge? Most of these people have a stronger meditation practice than my own. (Where the dharma sideswipes my bad habits would fill an entire blog.)

During the silent retreats, I find myself doing zazen everywhere, eyes pointed down in that 50 yard stare, following a breath coming with ease.

Getting vibed by a few women after Eve Ensler's talk. It reminds me of how teen boys, after seeing a kung fu film, leave the theater jumping around and kicking stuff.

Outdoor kinhin, like a samba line of awareness.

During a meditation exercise, the difficulty I had in connecting with a childhood memory. The way my back softened when I looked into my partner's eyes. How hard it was to hold it.

Natalie Goldberg's comment: "Why would you write a memoir if you have no regrets?"

How anger can be fuel for powerful meditations.

The final day, a thunderstorm comes over violently. We keep to our cushions, sitting strongly, holding the space, the silence. I feel a connection with everyone then, and my eyes fill, feeling the love.


On the turntable: Midlake, "The Trials of Van Occupanther"

Dust

I'm in Santa Fe, training for a month at Upaya Zen Center, and having a fine time, thank you. The hours of meditation, the long work periods, and all the snow are helping to ground me in this land of big skies.
Yesterday, while sitting on my cushion and polishing the mirror, a limerick showed up in my head like a surprise guest:

There once was a person of zen
Who pondered the now and the then.
He sat on his seat,
Losing touch with his feet,
Counting breaths that never seemed to reach ten.


On the turntable: Morcheeba, "Dive Deep"
On the nighttable: Michael Downing, "Shoes Outside the Door"