Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Samatha meditation is the foundation for all other meditations. If you’re a meditator but not familiar with the term samatha, I assure you that you are at least familiar with the technique. Samatha is Sanskrit for “calm abiding”, and the technique asks essentially that you focus easily but steadily on a single thing. Breath, anyone?
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| photo courtesy of me. |
Cultivating samatha is like equipping a car with fantastic shock absorbers. In life, we drive along, la-di-da…aware of, but not aware of surrounding traffic, Katy Perry on the radio, kids squawking in the backseat. We’re musing about, say, what’s for dinner and then BLAMMO! Gigantic pothole. The car lurches and bounces, everybody SCREAMS. Your heart races, you hold your breath, everything happens in slow motion and you are, to use a phrase that I cannot claim credit for, nailed to the present moment.*
Then you’re back on course, the kids are fine, nobody’s hurt, the car’s okay. “So, right-o, I’m thinking maybe meatloaf…”
It’s like that, life is, right? You’re just driving along and then the potholes appear, you didn’t even see them coming. The toilet backs up. Scream! Your kid gets mono. Freak out! You get laid off. Holla, and I don’t mean in a good way! Your spouse cheats on you. Holy shit! Your best friend is the other woman. FUCK!
Or, it could just be: The house is dirty. Your mom is nagging. No milk in the fridge. Your girlfriends went to lunch without you. Those are potholes, too. We lurch, and in that split second of clarity, before we make a decision about how we’re going to lose it (because oh, yes; by God, I’m going to lose it), we see exactly what’s going on. It is what it is and NOTHING MORE, and certainly not about you (sorry). Then that microsecond passes, our adrenaline spikes, our synapses fire, and we must somehow announce that we are:
A) ANGRY!
B) AFRAID!
C) ASHAMED!
D) CONFUSED!
E) ALL OF THE ABOVE!
Pothole.
We live according to rules, customs, norms and expectations because it makes life more convenient to navigate. That’s not a bad thing. Because we operate within this framework, though, we are subject to having the rug pulled out from underneath us swiftly and ruthlessly.
Samatha trains us to navigate these situations with less of an “AAAAAAAAAGHHHHHH!!!” and more of a “Whoa.”
What samatha is not is numbness. We aren’t steeling ourselves against hurt or surprise or disappointment. We are in fact moving forward, moving closer, despite the jagged edges of it. We find that, if we can soften, we can begin too move right through those things and be completely wide-eyed and present with them. Because those edges are sharp, it stings a little at first (okay, sometimes a lot, and sometimes not just at first - but stay with me here), that softening and opening. Right inside that, that shell broken open, is the soft guts of bodhichitta, your true nature: compassion, openness, empathy for the suffering of all living things bar none (including yourself; you don’t get to skip yourself – but that is fodder for another post).
Yeah, it’s lofty. I practice samatha. Do I feel open, compassionate, empathetic? Sometimes. Maybe more and more, slowly. Sometimes, not so much. I’m still learning the value of disciplined practice and sangha. Oh, and that you get to keep coming back without penalty. That may be the loveliest part, as my friend Liz says: Keep coming back, keep coming back. With practice, your true nature becomes second nature. Ironic.
To my friends at Shambhala Dallas, gassho, and thank you.
* anyone care to guess? if you know me personally, it's not really so hard.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Life has re-assumed some sort of linearity. Or, rather, linearity re-imposed itself upon my life the moment I walked into Tribhuvan International Airport in Kathmandu on the afternoon of Saturday, May 14.
Nepal was my home for the past four weeks. Three planes, four stops and thirty hours later: I’m sitting, cleanly and too comfortably, at the kitchen table in my tidy suburban Dallas home. My circadian rhythms will simply have to work it out on their own.
This entry is an inadequate attempt to preface what I hope will be several more devoted my life in the center of the universe with Nepal as my backdrop. Based on past patterns, I could very well just drop the whole project. All I have to go on are scribbled notes inside the covers of books, ticket stubs, addresses written on napkins and my own feeble, fickle memory. I don’t pretend to assume you have any vested interest, dear reader. My hypothesis is that, with any luck, I will have a record for myself of how, for (too) brief but brilliant moments, I found myself able to release my iron grip on fear, breathe and be completely clear about just. this. moment. I was there when it happened. I fought it. I know it’s possible; what a fucking relief!
I want more of that kind of stillness and gentleness and openness, but oh look, there I go grasping again. So silly, so predictable! If I can manage to steal time outside of linearity, expectations, obligations and structure - these things that just have their way with me because I invite them in and hold on to them – well, I have a chance.
So what follows (if it does, because you know, a girl has to reintegrate. Make appointments. Meet expectations. Answer calls and respond to emails. Construct schedules and lists and make sure everybody takes their meds and eats a balanced meal) is my selective accounting of “what I did in Nepal!” (because many of you asked and because, frankly, I find it interesting). I’ll just be right up front about my selectivity. Dear readers, you get the polished (?), mostly palatable version. If you want to know more, want to dig a little deeper; ask me in person: I may or may not oblige.
With compassion, and humor, and lightness; because we really are all on the same ridiculous boat.
Om tare
Sunday, April 17, 2011
April 17, 2011
New Delhi, 8:30p
“Cosmopolitan” implies a certain nonchalance and see-it-allness; a sort of cool adultness about things. I am, therefore, decidedly not cosmopolitan. India is a complete amazing freakshow and, after having spent decent chunks of time here, I say with confidence that the freaky just doesn’t let up. I am just as completely awestruck, silly, apologetic and sometimes timid as I was just making my way through Mumbai Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport 11 years ago. Specifically, being pursued by the elderly bathroom attendant as I exited the restroom doors and down the hall, muttering something that didn’t really sound like good energy. Me: completely terrified, utterly fascinated and, well, laughing quite honestly; then my husband concludes: you asked for toilet paper, didn’t you? I was apparently remiss in not tipping Auntie-ji for the favor.
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| So, define spurious...? |
The newness is unrelenting even when I’ve seen it before, and it still throws me off balance sometimes. The busy roads of monsoon Delhi are a mean place for a kid who looks upsettingly like Arjun, and I still do a double take although I’ve cultivated that look that says “I am unaffected.” But I guess somehow I am, and more and more I can’t call it judgment or dismay, just observation. I like it; it’s like life, how life really should be. You know? Every moment is new, pregnant with possibilities limited only by our feeble little minds.
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