Nine Snaps and Then Three More

The first 8–all recent–photos were thrown up in random order by forces ruling technology. I thought of protesting, of diligently rearranging them according to some structure of chronology or location then decided that was just the voice of my New England schooling and it’s incessant demand for order. The last three though, I made sure to arrange so as to support my little bit of narration. Richie and I were both 23 in 1965 when I, mourning the death of my dad, dropped out of grad school and moved to New York to become a starving poet. Richie owned half a bar, a joint called The Annex on Avenue B between 10th and 11th, which was annexed to nothing beyond the whole incredible ethos of the East Village as it emerged from the Lower East Side.

When I checked “The Annex” in my blog look up, it produced four more entries:

Whatever, here’s some brief respite from concerns of pandemic, race, religious, political and gender hatreds.




Outside MoMA


Under 103rd and Broadway


Amsterdam & 79th


Viewing the Alice Neel show at the Met Museum


Broadway at 125th


125th west of Broadway


125th west of Broadway


The Highline crossing 10th Avenue around 30th Street


Grafitto on the A train platform under 8th & 34th subway

*   *   *

And now the “Three More.” Think of these as a short story and, having done so, feel free to create your own plot. Should you actually do so, please continue feeling free and submit your creation as a comment. Rest assured it will be printed.

RSG, who in 1965 lived across East 11th Street, remarkably near Avenue B, from the Free Public Baths of the City of New York.

The very baths referenced in the caption above.


Richie V, the man who in 1965 gave the man who lived across from those

Baths his very first job in New York City and who now lives in the

self-same building occupied in 1965 by  the (I love this word!) self-same RSG.

Enable AMP!

WordPress has changed my world by changing the editing software I’ve been using since 2006. On top of that they’ve informed me that I’m about to use up my 3 gigs of free space and suggest I start paying them to continue being able to post Welcome! I’m trying hard to not believe that all this is not tied into COVID-19 or the right to carry an AK-47 into Dunkin’ Donuts or even the election of a Democrat President or the UCONN Women’s basketball schedule. Whatever and beliefs notwithstanding, I’ve figured out how to create and post using the new format and have applied for Federal funding to meet the $4 per month debt I’m about to incur. Let this be my close-to-last insight of 2020: It all works outpretty much.

As for “Enable AMP,” I’ve no idea what AMP is, but I am now in position to engage or disable it as I choose.

And now the pictures!

#2 train socially isolated

Amsterdam Avenue in the rain


Henri’s rooftop on West 86th Street

Chelsea Piers

The Met empty enough to see the artwork


Smoke break on E. 43rd near UN

Central Park pond

Amsterdam & 76th

Ghost in the subway

Living room shelf

The Highline


                                            Mr. Plow & Mr. Sun




From the Highline

And an afterthought: Some one of you who‘re reading this actually know what AMP stands for. Please use the “comments” section to tell me. Obviously it doesn’t enable me to get the desired spacing between the last snap and it’s caption.

Those of you who don’t know what it stands for, here’s your chance to get funny.

Published in: on December 6, 2020 at 3:38 pm  Comments (11)  

Two Recommendations



Two recent articles by Richard Schiffman, I recommend both to you.

Do All Religions Teach the Same Truth?

Did the Dalai Lama Just Call for an End to Religion?

Published in: on December 6, 2012 at 10:38 am  Leave a Comment  

Later That Night…

This makes much more sense if you’ve read the blog entry called Mind, New Mind, Another Mind Altogether which is just below this one. 

This is about me and my dad.  This is the last picture I have of him.

He’s standing in front of the produce section of the Grand Union Supermarket in Bloomfield, Connecticut.  Dad kept this job, commuting a couple of hours a day on city busses to and from our flat in Hartford until it was time for him to retire, check into the hospital, live for a while with cancer and then die just before I would be graduated from college and come home wanting and needing to tell him I knew nothing and would he please explain to me what it meant to be a man and where one found the courage to be that.

Now it’s 48 years later.  It’s evening in the Chan Hall, Dharma Drum Retreat Center, Pine Bush, NY.  I’ve had dinner, rested, sat in silent meditation for a while, exercised, sat silently again and now it’s time for walking meditation.  I stand, this time not at all anticipating pains in my hip and feet, not at all feeling anger toward anyone, no fear of death or self-hatred for fearing death.  Just standing up to begin walking meditation.  A quick thought, “Is this me?” comes and goes faster than I can tell it.  We begin to walk at “normal walking” pace.  Something is happening.

No more than 10 steps into walking meditation I am aware of an intense presence at my immediate left.  It is entirely too soon for anyone to be passing me.  I look again.  The space is clearly empty–but it’s not.  There is someone next to me.  Invisible to me as well as to the others, he is my father.  Yes, unmistakably my father.  Without hesitation I reach out my left hand and feel him take it.  Hand in hand we walk in meditation around the Chan Hall for the next 15 minutes.  I talk.  He listens, assuring me all the while that he hears clearly, heart to heart, all I say and don’t say.

I tell him I love him and miss him.  Softly he lets me know that’s not all I want to say.

“Go ahead,” he urges.  “Go ahead.”  I tell him how I hate that he died when I needed him most, that–yeah, I know it was cancer and he didn’t choose it–still he abandoned me, left me to a fear and hopelessness that resulted in 20 years of terror covered over by alcohol, pot and cocaine.

“Yes,” he says.  “But there’s more.  Tell me more.”

“Yes,” I say.  “There is more.”

“Say it,” he encourages without emotion.

“I’ll say it,” my voice growling now.  “Don’t worry, I’ll say it.” My mouth twists and quivers.  My voice chokes, cracks dry.  I clear my throat.  “Even when you were there you WEREN’T there!”  I’m scared now, scared to continue and scared to stop.  “You were at work or eating dinner or reading the Hartford Times or asleep in the easy chair in front of the TV.  On weekends you’d spend Saturdays walking around on Main Street meeting and greeting all your buddies or up in the pool room doing the same damn’ thing.  On Sundays you’d be at Grandma’s or watching a ball game with Uncle Jack or playing rummy or some such shit.  You never had time for me.  You never listened to me or asked me anything about my life.  You never taught me anything.”

I felt his eyes lower.  His hand grew warmer in mine and almost tense, as if he were struggling not to speak.  I started to feel guilty and wanted to take back what I’d said.  But that, of course, was impossible.  Words uttered in silence are not retractable.  Nothing now but silence enveloping us, uniting us.  And then an image so clear of my hand in his, the year perhaps 1950, my fingers still sticky from late night ice cream as we walked home in the chill night air from the bus stop after a Hartford Chiefs night game at Bulkeley Stadium…

…the image of him standing alert at the edge of the water as a friend of his taught me to swim…

…of him in the cafeteria of West Middle School being an assistant Cub Scout leader when he was too tired to stand after a day of work on his feet…

…the image of us in the refrigerated room below the Hartford Market where he would make fancy baskets of fruit to be given as gifts to folks going on cruises or dying in hospitals, him telling me he worked hard so I wouldn’t have to…

…of him sitting on the couch, my mother’s sleeping head on his shoulder when I returned after midnight from my first high school party…

…an image of him walking into the Wooster pool room while I was trying to show everybody there just how cool I was and beating my ass at game after game after game of 8 ball…

…of me all IvyLeagued up and home from my fancy-assed college for the weekend, him telling me to phone my grandmother just to say hello…

For fifteen minutes we walked, me talking and him listening, him making me feel safe and heard.  Tears falling inward, clearing the path so obscured for those 48 years.  Him, I think, feeling a father’s courage to be a father, to hear the truth knowing it will lead to the deeper truth, and, for the two of us, the joy of love flowing freely again.

Published in: on June 10, 2012 at 9:20 pm  Comments (16)  

Secrets of the Seder from Rabbi Jacobson to You!

Here’s the link:

Here’s who it’ll link  you to:

Rabbi Simon Jacobson knocks me out!  A Lubavitcher  who could just as easily be a Zen Roshi or a Sufi master or a Christian mystic, here he presents an understanding of the Passover Seder, the holiday ritual featuring a meal or meal surrounded by ritual–your choice–guided by his desire to reveal the relevance of the holiday and to show–with true Kabbalistic understanding–the spiritual/psychological reality depicted in historical events.  If you can spare an hour 34 minutes and 36 seconds of this busy time, please click on the link and listen to him tell it.

If not, or as a less than scholarly introduction to it, here are my notes.  Yes, I took notes while I listened:

5 Ways to Transform the Seder

Introduction:The central theme of Passover is the freedom represented by the Jews leaving Egypt 3324 years ago, relevant today as spiritual liberation and psychological liberation from restraints imposed by our fears, passions and inhibitions, by our feeling the need to be self-protective or dishonest, restrictions which constitute any block to our being fully realized human beings.

The 5 steps are marked–cleverly enough–by 5 words beginning with S, E, D, E and R:

SPEAK     All are encouraged to speak out, to not submit to the will of oppressors by holding silent.  In the Pesach (the Hebrew word for the holiday which means the mouth that speaks) ritual 4 children ask questions relating to the meaning of the holiday.  One of them is described as the wicked child, the one who asks, “What’s all this crap about anyway?”  That child is needed as much as the others, so he is invited back year after year.

EMPATHY     The holiday begins with an invitation to ALL to be welcomed, for ALL to sit at the Seder table and be part of the celebration.  Life is not just about me!  The matzoh, the unleavened bread, represents humility, just as bread which has risen is inflated like ego.  The bitter herbs, symbol of suffering, are placed at the center of the Seder table.  The center in Kabbalah is reserved for compassion or empathy, so this positioning speaks for itself.  As to it’s relevance for us, focus on another’s struggle liberates us for the moment from self-concern.  Thus empathy yields the ultimate self-benefit.  Empathy leads to the greatest happiness.

DIP     There are several moments in the Seder when dipping or immersing occurs.  We dip our fingers into salt water, our matzoh into the sweet haroset or the bitter horseradish.  We count out the plagues by dipping our fingers into the wine.  Symbolically here’s where we get into the wonderful mysticism that unites Judaism with Islam, Christianity, Buddhism and the Hindu faiths.  The dipping represents our immersion, our being intimately and sustainingly in deepest connection to the sea of life, to interdependence, to oneness with all.  It bespeaks selflessness, ultimate seamless and non-duplicitous reality.  It is letting go and being  truly “in the zone.”

EDIFY or ENLIGHTEN     When we speak, do we edify and illuminate the topic?  Or not?  In my interactions with others am I drained or empowered?  Do I drain or empower them?  Hmm…

REMEMBER     Passover reconnects us with the past, with our personal and cultural histories and traditions.  It connects us to eternity.  Memory allows us to transcend time and space and thus to reach the great ultimate reality.  It connects us to that which truly matters.

Passover fuses body with soul, ritual with spirituality, tradition with relevance.

*   *   *

How does this tie in with your traditions and beliefs and what you’ve figured out about life?

Published in: on April 5, 2012 at 12:43 pm  Comments (1)  
Tags: , , ,

(Another) Revelation!


WARNING: This is going to be one of those posts in which I’ll begin by being a little cute and ramble around until I eventually focus on something.  Since I keep dealing with the same things and since there’s really no reason to expect I’m about to try something new or different now, you might find yourself wondering why you’re bothering to read this in the first place.  You already know that somehow it will eventually come back to a moment of discovery, me gaining a new and brilliant understanding which, when all is said and done,  was obvious to anyone who was paying attention from the beginning.  And God forbid I should let it all end without some final cutitude.

Don’t say you haven’t been warned.

*   *   *

It’s been about a month since I’ve added anything to this space.  Not that there hasn’t been subject matter:

1. The lingering impact of a bike crash way back on Labor Day weekend.

2. Our block association’s annual White Elephant Sale.

3. A colonoscopy and an endoscopy (not done simultaneously.)

4. Joyfully reconnecting with folks from my past through Facebook.

5. My participation in a 5 day Western Zen Retreat up north (some of my readers will respond more to that geographic reference than will others).

6. A one day tour of wineries and farm stands on Long Island’s North Fork.

7. My computer which now takes a full 15 minutes to contact the internet.

8. Right now, when I’d ordinarily be sitting in meditation at Still Mind Zendo, but left after only a few minutes this morning when the pain in my knee (see #1 above) set off a round of suffering which made continued sitting impossible for me.

OK, forget the warning!  Let me just get right to it, the same “it” which runs through all 8 possibilities–especially when I realize that #1 and #8 are the same.

Anyhow, here come the revelations, beginning with #2:



Imagine me and Bobbie sitting out behind a table and in front of a schoolyard fence both covered with things we once loved or needed or–more likely–wanted on a beautiful Sunday morning and eventually afternoon.  Me thinking: I hate this.  This is the last place on earth–with the exception of active combat zones–that I want to be.  I want to be on my bicycle.  I’m only doing this out of marital obligation.  If I were single or if I loved Bobbie any less–but I’m neither of those, and I do love helping her–actually this helps us–and it’s kind of fun being out here in the sun,  meeting people and getting into conversations with folks I’ve never met before, even reminiscing behind some of the life artifacts up for sale.

Hey! When I focus on what I’m actually doing and not what I’m thinking,  I’m not suffering.

Hey hey!! Here I am out in the sunshine  having a great time and noticing that I choose to suffer or not by my perspective.  It all comes from how I see things, not from what I see.

Hey hey hey !!! (with apologies to Krusty the Klown)  This is good stuff.

Rereading what I’ve put down so far, it now occurs to me that my point’s been made.  No need to write about the retreat or leaving the zendo early or discovering that the 15 minutes it takes to get onto the internet makes for a built-in 15 minute meditation period.  Definitely no need to write about tubes being stuck into my digestive and ingestive systems.

‘Nuff said, I say!  although I really want to include this from the first email opened after the 15 minute wait:

…it is the perspective of the sufferer that determines whether a given experience perpetuates suffering or is a vehicle for awakening.

–Mark Epstein


Published in: on October 24, 2009 at 12:53 pm  Comments (6)  

A Brush with Divine Intervention

This may be the silliest post yet.  Maybe not…

The title, of course, is a reference to two posts ago, a little story about cracking out of my little world of “shoulds” into the much bigger universe of “is.”  This time, if I have it right, it’s about leaving the world of “coincidence” in favor of the cosmos of “OmyGod!”

The picture below is of a fully inflated bicycle tube hanging in a closet.  IMG_1599And here’s the chain of events which led to my spending  time and effort to create the basically mundane image now at the left.  It all began Monday morning.  The time was about 8:45, the temperature was already in the upper 80’s with nowhere to go but up, and I, filled with rationalizations and good intentions was about to mount my bike and ride four laps (25 miles) in Central Park before riding the 8 miles to work.  Remember, boyhood has long passed me by–or I it–and my heart has a history of attacking me.

Just as I am about to  pass through the apartment door on my rush to ego gratification, I notice my back tire’s flat.  On closer inspection I also note that several sections of the tire have worn so thin that the kevlar belt under the rubber’s surface has actually replaced the rubber.  Clearly it is time for a patch and a new tire.

I set to work.  Patching tubes is something I’ve had a great deal of experience with lately.  One block from visiting friends Annie and Mahanta at the beach at Rockaway Park I flatted on my commuter bike.  It was the first time in maybe four years that such a thing has happened to my city bike tires, those warriors of urban trash and treachery, those conquerors of both The Bronx and Brooklyn.  Then there was the ultimately polite delight ride with newly met friend Marilyn on the Hudson River Greenway and the flat she somehow brought with her from home.  Our only spare tube (mine) was two inches less in diameter than her tire and wheel.  Still, with patience and perseverance it was done.

This time, in the comfort of my own home, a most curious phenomenon: I was unable to spot the leak in the tube. I inflated it and moved my hand slowly along it’s surface…nothing.  I ran it along my ever-so-tender cheek, past my keen hearing ear.  No blow.  No hiss.  I filled the sink with water and immersed the tube.  No telltale bubbles.  Especially close attention to the valve and the one patch from a previous flat yielded the same nothingness.  Out of curiosity and, I suspect, some disbelief, I hung the inflated tube as you see it depicted, fully expecting to find it flat upon returning from work late that evening.

Focusing back on the bike: I just happened to have in that selfsame closet both a new tube and a new tire, perhaps the stiffest tire ever made.  With great and prolonged effort I managed first to wrangle the tube into the tire and then the pair of them almost onto the bike’s back wheel.  “Almost,” here, is the operative word.  For what felt like the better part of a decade I struggled to mount them to the wheel without success.  Then I remembered: back in my day we’d first put the tire half on the wheel, then insert the tube, then bring the other side of the tire into place.  I tried it and, yes, old fashioned worked.

OK and I’m ready to ride.  A quick look at the clock and it becomes immediately and incontrovertibly clear that there is no way either here or in hell that I’ll have time to ride my four go-rounds in the park, come home, shower, dress and ride to work.  O well, perhaps changing the tire and tube were exercise enough.  Out of my nifty bike rider suit and into my commuter stuff and off I go.  A quick stop at the library to return four CD’s (Brubeck’s Take Five, the Byrds’ Sweetheart of the Rodeo, The Million Dollar Quartet’s Million Dollar Quartet and Clifton Chenier Live Somewhere in 1981) and then onto the bike path along the Hudson to head for The Bronx and the job.

By now the temperature’s pretty close to ninety  and probably the humidity as well.  Despite the 10 or so miles per hour breeze created by my  riding I find myself utterly wet with sweat.  The air is  just short of being a beverage rather than a gas.  Struggling along on perfectly flat pavement, I  hear it:

“OmyGod!,” that interior voice much smarter than my own blurts out.  “If you’d gone to the park to ride laps, you’d probably be dead by now.”

“OmyGod,” I agree.  “I agree!”

Slowing down to the speed of a respectable senior fastwalker and drinking much water, stopping periodically to rest, I make my way uphill from sea level along the Hudson over the spine of Washington Heights to the Highbridge section of The Bronx and the job.  Now, I’ve already got some interpretive ideas regarding what I’ve been describing here, the kind of fuzzy spiritual things you’ve come to expect of me, but I just leave those out when telling co-worker Martha about the morning’s events.  She knows of my heart history and doesn’t mince words.

“Hmmfff,” she sort of snorts.  “Divine intervention,” and walks away.

Divine intervention…nice idea…but no.  The tire was flat.  It is flat, I think to myself.  When I get home tonight it will be limp as an old man’s (sigh) step.

All day long, through client interviews (I work with men and women in treatment for addictions to drugs, alcohol, street life, pain and money) and group facilitations, I can’t stop thinking about that damned tube.  At 8:45 pm, 12 hours exactly after all this began, I phoned home and asked Bobbie, now my wife of 11 years, to walk the phone to the closet and describe the tube to me.

Yes, it was still firm with air!  No it hadn’t again flattened.

When I got home an hour later it was still firm.  I took it down, forced the air out and rolled it up.  The next day (today) I decided to write up this bit of mystery and re-inflated the tube to photograph, then deflated and rerolled it, realized the picture wouldn’t orient properly, unrolled the tube and rephotographed it.  Each time it held air with no leakage.  Each time I heard Martha’s observation.

I think she’s onto something…I don’t know…Do you?


Here’s Martha (with Edgar)

Published in: on August 21, 2009 at 12:28 pm  Comments (1)  
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Another brush with enlightenment


A few Saturdays ago I bicycled from home on Manhattan’s well-publicised Upper West Side across the 59th Street Bridge (the one people in Queens call the Queensboro Bridge,) along the southern edge of Long Island City, through Woodside and up 37th Avenue into Jackson Heights’ dynamic Indian/Bangladeshi community.  Carnegie Hall sponsors a series of Neighborhood Concerts, free musical events held throughout the boroughs, featuring extraordinary musicians from essentially everywhere.  Samita Sinha, a multilingual (Hindi, Urdu, Chinese, English…) singer, accompanied by congas, tablas and keyboard was to perform at the Jackson Heights branch of the Queens Public Library.  Never having heard or heard of her, I was ready.

The library’s meeting room was filled to capacity.  At 3:15, a polite 15 minutes after the posted starting time the City Council member responsible for funding the event spoke briefly as did representatives of both the library and the concert series.  Ms. Sinha lives 3 blocks from the library, she told us when she took the stage.  She was at home and wanted us to feel the same way.  Hmm…Queens quaint, I thought.

Others, however, took her words more seriously.  Two women, appearing to be in their 80’s, sat behind me.  Their pre-program conversation had been no more to me than undistinguished sounds in the general and appropriate din.  Things became different, however, when the music started and they showed no inclination to stop.  Both were hard of hearing and eager to let everyone know that.  One flipped loudly through the newspaper insert for a local market.  The other developed a catch phrase, “I don’t like this music!” and repeated it with metronome-like regularity.  Thus provoked and eager to establish silence, I turned to them and glared wordlessly for a beat before returning my attention to the stage.  As I turned  back and before I could congratulate myself on silencing them, I heard one say to the other, “What’s he looking at?”  to which the other responded, “I don’t like this music!”

Their page-flipping and conversation continued as did my anger.  Being a good Manhattanite and respecter of performers and,  Hey, dammit!   I’m a registered senior citizen and don’t appreciate anyone in my age demographic misrepresenting the rest of us!  I fell to grimacing and twitching, silently selecting and rehearsing the devastating comments I’d make to them when the current tune ended.  Pissed was hardly the word for it.

Now here’s where it gets interesting.  The man sitting next to me, a man in his perhaps 40’s, looking like he might be from the Subcontinent, turned in my direction and smiled.  Clearly he was hearing all I was hearing, clearly he was aware of my feelings–yeah, like I’m trying to disguise them– yet he smiled.   And get this, it was a real smile.  No irony, no sympathy, no meaning.  Just a smile.   He smiled and, just so,  my hostility vanished!  As if that weren’t enough, I was then somehow  propelled through an instant of embarrassment–me demanding that two old friends at a neighborhood event in their neighborhood in their library act as I  wanted them to act–puleeze!–and just as quickly  back to the wonder of the music with all of  the foregoing forgotten.

Midway through the music the women stood and grumbled their way out of the room.  Another smile from the man to my left.  I smiled back–just a smile, no more than that.

Life lessons, I suspect, abound in Jackson Heights.


Published in: on July 15, 2009 at 9:47 pm  Comments (6)  

Aw, Koan wit yez!


Let me make this a bit scholarly by quoting someone who actually knows what he’s talking about before devolving into my homey self-example.  The writer here is Koun Yamada.  He is writing in the Author’s Preface to the First Edition of the Gateless Gate: the classic book of Zen Koans.  The man says:

The entrance into Zen [right away an interruption from me: Forget about the first four words.  This is no more or less than getting to know yourself, a point I’ll undoubtedly make more times than necessary] is the grasping of one’s essential nature.  It is absolutely impossible, however, to come to a clear understanding of our essential nature by any intellectual or philosophical method.  It is accomplished only by the experience of self-realization through zazen.  [Another interruption from me: Zazen is sitting meditation, and I don’t buy it as the only way to knowing who or what you really are, but it comes with the quotation.  Let the man continue:]  And the koans [Me again:  Koans are short–often very short–stories designed to confound our usual processes of understanding] used in Zen can be seen through only when looked at from the essential point of view.  Therefore to the person whose enlightened eye has not been opened, Zen koans seem impractical, illogical, and against common sense.  Once this eye  has opened, however, all koans express natural matters and relate the most obvious of realities.

OK, so koans are apparently absurd little stories which, when we try to figure them out, exhaust our practical, logical, commonsensical faculties, thus bringing into play our impractical, illogical and–here  I’m being cute, but maybe not–nonsensical connections with life.  Most remarkably we never solve them so much as transmute them into openings for entering into that deeper understanding of ourselves and all of reality.  You might call them an entrance into (OMYGOD!) Zen!

Let the scene shift…IMG_1181

The last week in May was spent at the Dharma Drum Retreat Center in Pine Bush, New York.  The event was a seven day Koan Retreat, the third I’ve attended along with five Western Zen Retreats of five days each and one other done mostly in Chinese with English translations.   DDRC has become an grounding place and a launching pad for me.  Without any formal acknowledgment or contract, the retreat leaders, John Crook and Simon Child,  dharma heirs of  The Venerable Master Sheng Yen (1930-2009), have become my teachers.  Without conspiring they regularly double-team me, good-cop/bad-cop me into new levels of growth.  What’s particularly remarkable is that there is never forewarning of who will be which cop!

This retreat like the others was a great success: learning to deal better with both physical and spiritual pain, opening more to reality and being a bit less vulnerable to the persuasions of ego.  The method was koan based, using these ancient conundrums as a portal to self understanding beyond cognition, to lead us into worlds of sensation and perception without the brain’s compulsion to organize and interpret and value-judge.

After a day to settle in and leave the rest of the world behind we were given a handout with 7 full koans and perhaps 7 hua-tous, the punchlines to other koans.  Our task was to select the one we’d prefer to work on for the remaining days.  The belief: we are drawn to our choice by the karma we bring to it.   A social worker might substitute the word “unconscious” for karma, but this particular social worker no longer sees a difference between the two.

I chose  “How can you step off the top of a 100 foot pole?”  I chose it for several reasons:

1. I knew this hua-tou and so thought I had a leg up on it.
2. It was short and thus suited my limited ability to memorize.
3. I could sing it to the tune of “Saturday night is the loneliest night of the week.”  (Try it!)
4. Something told me it was the one to go with.
A note here: this seven day silent retreat was one of continual meditation,  the meditation taking several forms.  Each day’s schedule was the same, beginning with exercise done meditatively.  Eating was done as a meditation on eating.  Twice each day we engaged in a work meditation.
My work meditation task was to sweep the 35′ x 70′ meditation hall twice a day, a job that had me walking continually on bare feet continually in pain–another opportunity to truly practice.

The retreat actually went as the one a year ago had also gone.  The day of settling in.  Then one day of befuddlement followed by a day of thinking I had the thing licked.  An interview with our teacher and this year’s bad-cop, John Crook, who allowed me to rage successful for a few minutes then, by posing a simple follow-up question to my self-satisfied ravings, propelled me into “Great Doubt.”  Great Doubt is another traditional Zen concept.  It describes a period of utter agony which I expressed as thoughts of Why am I here?  Who am I fooling?  What’s the point of all this self-torture anyway?   Notice that here the focus has shifted from the literal content of the koan to it’s impact on all of my life certainties.  The portal was open.  Did I dare walk through it?

My immediate and thoroughly logical conclusion: go back to the dorm; pack; hitch hike back to town; catch the train back to NYC!


One view from the center of the circle of Great Doubt

But something else said stay.  A few hours later, during a period of solitary walk-in-the-woods meditation I found myself in an unknown part of the retreat grounds in a light rain, not so much distracting myself from the interior gloom by focusing on the exterior beauty but simply melting into it.  That’s when it hit, my revelation of the moment, one which would carry me through the ups and downs of the week’s remaining rollercoaster ride and (hooray) life since then:

I am a happy man who occasionally has unhappy moments.

I know, there are a whole bunch of you out there who already knew that.

Published in: on June 13, 2009 at 10:55 am  Comments (10)  


Could it be that your immense empathy for your clients has become part of who you are? Do they not go through a period of self-hate? I’m not talking about transference here, I’m talking about connections with these people that you have helped. You are one being…made up of infinite connections with other beings, any one of which can vastly change either being involved…


A bunch of things are coming together at this moment, brought into focus by the words of Cousin Ezra printed above.  It might not have been conscious, but it wasn’t coincidental that the last posting was introduced by my plea for feedback.  The material presented in the post was both painful and puzzling, leaving me to a great extent hosting feelings alien to my experience.  It felt like I’d been strapped to the back  rack of my bicycle while someone else pedaled and steered.  (Is “bicyclejacked” a term?)

img_2804I needed help.

So many of you supplied that help either through comments that others might read (click on “comments” or “See Comments” below) or in private correspondence.  Some focused on the meditation experience, some on the interaction with my teacher, some on my relationship with my clients.  All provided me with fresh vantage points from which to gain additional understanding of what all had transpired and, ultimately, how to make the most of it.

Again, thanks!

Published in: on December 20, 2008 at 10:53 pm  Leave a Comment  

This is a Hard One…


At this moment this has nothing to do with Christmas, Channukah, Kwaanza or any other holiday.  It has to do with a painful event followed by another painful event which continues to cause pain.  It’s not at all appropriate to the season, and, given the usually light or musing nature of this blog, not even appropriate to what I’ve been writing.  Let me stop explaining and just start writing.

*     *     *

Back on the 31st of October I began a period of intensified Zen meditation, study and practice lasting through the 6th of December.  During that period I participated in a group study of the writings of a  8th century Chinese Zen master, Ma-tsu (which I didn’t understand) and understanding of the Ten Essential Precepts (which I didn’t do well with either), extended my daily meditation period from 35 to 40 minutes (which did nothing to increase the depth of my meditation),  focused on maintaining two of those Ten Essential Precepts (#7: not elevating oneself or blaming others–to own one’s limitations, and #9, not being angry–to see things as they are and not as they should be (which may prove to be the saving grace in all this.) On December 6th this formal period, called Ango, ended with a meditation beginning at 8 in the morning and lasting until after 9 in the evening.

It was during this extended meditation  period that the first painful event occurred.  It happened at about 3:30 in the afternoon.  I was sitting in meditation when suddenly, with nothing I can recall to provoke  it,   my mind and body were taken over by feelings I’d never before experienced.  Intense helplessness, pain, isolation, terror, bewilderment, betrayal, despondency–I was experiencing feelings often described to me over the last 15 years by clients I’ve treated for addictions: the feelings that accompany being sexually abused as children by a trusted family member.  For all the years my clients did their best to describe their feelings, this was the first time their reports had moved from my cautious and distancing brain right into the center of my living.  I was sweating.  My belly was flipping.  Tears tried to come out, but I was too terrified to let that happen.  It was as if all that I had held certain and dear in life was simply no more.  I felt utterly alone and defenseless in this universe.  Utterly at the mercy of any and all evil.  Without losing consciousness everything went black.

Blessedly, when the gong sounded ending the meditation period I was scheduled to meet with one our teachers, our senseis, to discuss my progress and receive counseling.  I all but ran to the daisan area, the private space where we were to meet, my muscles tight to aching and my nausea just under control.  I rushed the polite introductories and spilled out as best I could the feelings which still ran through me.  I knew that compassion, one of Buddhism’s fundamentals was involved, but that empathy, a similar but much more visceral response, was overwhelming all else. Sensei would bring me back to balance.

Sensei looked at me calmly, and said that his job was to help me with Dharma, the Buddhist term which can mean either reality or the Buddha’s teachings, which are also reality.  When I continued my blurting, he noted that he had many more students to see and could not spend a lot of time with me.  When I continued–undoubtedly repeating what I’d already said, he asked me if I wanted to study koans, Japanese/zen mind-releasing puzzles, in January.  I responded that I was too tied up in this moment to think a month ahead.

At this point there was a pause, then I heard Sensei say, “Where there is self-hatred there can be no progress.”

What???  I was certainly jolted out of my terror and nausea.  What the fuck did that mean?  Who was self-hating?  I’d very carefully explained that I was feeling feelings my clients had described, that I’d never been molested nor had I molested anyone, that my life, ups, downs and the rest, had left me feeling blessed.  I had no idea of what he meant by his sentence.  I knew that Zen could be cryptic, but this was beyond my ability to understand, beyond my ability to even see the suggestion of a path to explore.  Still I was too upset to even ask what was meant, too chaotic to do anything but fall back on my habitual insecurities and assume that sooner or later I’d understand what my teacher was telling me.  Not all that deep down I felt that somehow it was being implied that I was an abuser.

Bowing meekly I left the room and returned to my mat.  For the next 5 hours I was useless. There was no meditation.  Motionless and silent, the agony of my clients had been joined by my own.  I, too, felt abandoned.

That was on Saturday.  Sunday, Monday and Tuesday I remained preoccupied, embedded in turmoil.  Tuesday night I returned to the zendo for regularly scheduled meditation.  Before even taking off my jacket I signed up for daisan with Sensei.  I had to know what had been meant by, “Where there is self-hatred there can be no progress.”  Walking to the interview area I alternated between rehearsing my words and urging myself not to turn and run.  Arriving in the daisan space, my voice at the edge of tears, I explained how I did not understand his comment, that I remained upset and without direction, that I had to know the meaning of his comment.

He replied directly and without hesitation, “I never said such a thing,” and asked for the context of this alleged remark.  I repeated all that I described above to you, all of which he acknowledged, all but the devastating sentence, “Where there is self-hatred there can be no progress.”  Again I flashed back to the stories from my clients.  Now, however, I wasn’t just hearing them.  I had become one of them.  Like them my perception, my reality was being denied.  The one whom I saw as my help, my rescuer, was denying what I knew to be true.

“You must understand,” Sensei continued, his voice firm and words precise.  “You must understand: I have no memory of ever having said those words.”  I looked into my lap, my shoulders dropping, my belly heaving, eyes wet.  A second, a minute, an eternity passed, then I heard a weak, infantile version of my own voice:  “I understand that you have no memory of ever having said those words.”  I rose and returned to the meditation room.

*     *     *

Zen and Ma-tsu talk of an all-containing universe, a universe so grand that it knows no contradictions because it holds all.  Truth and not-truth, full and not-full, raped and not raped.  Leaving my meeting with Sensei I focused on the universe holding memory-of-this and n0-memory of-this.  My truth and Sensei’s truth.  A universe big enough for both.

Intellectually I see no problem in this–now.  Sensei remembers one thing.  I remember another.  Reporting on our memories, we are both accurate.  Be clear, other than what we remember there is no trace of what transpired in that daisan on December 6, 2008 at around 3:45 in the afternoon.  The events of that moment are no longer part of here and now reality.  They are only of the past.

Reality, that which exists right now, is another story.  Right now Sensei may well believe that my memory is broken and, indeed, it has its problems.  I believe that  Sensei’s memory–if only in this instance–is simply not as good as my own.  I’d like to leave all this in the past, but there is the matter of pain, pain which is now and is real.

That pain which I  feel now is not that of my clients.  Nor is it that of not being comforted in those moments coming off the meditation mat. It is not even the pain in the accusation I inferred from the words, “Where there is self-hatred there can be no progress.”   No, it comes from my inability to leave the past behind, and as such it becomes my teacher, pointing up unmistakably my now-and-then tendency to become stuck in products of my mind.

Here I become grateful.

The work with my clients is to help them dislodge from the suffering brought on by clinging to the horrors and beliefs arising from their pasts.  Having it thus handed to me that such is not the clean and easy task I’ve always envisioned bolsters my compassion and my patience.  It makes me better at what I do.


Published in: on December 18, 2008 at 10:59 pm  Comments (13)  

If Bees Make Honey In the Lion’s Head, What Do Wasps Do?

Friday night.  16 retreatants and two trainees kneeling on meditation mats, comprising three sides of a square in the center of Chan Meditation Hall, Dharma Drum Retreat Center, Pine Bush, New York, autumn.  At the 4th side a just larger than life statue of the Buddha and, in front of it, Simon, our teacher.  He asks,

“Why are you here?  What are your expectations?”

Everyone, it seems, expects the others–or at least an other–to answer first.  This is my 4th Western Zen Retreat.  I’ve been through this before…know what to expect.  At  home on my desk in a rubberbanded collection of randomness, there is a note from a previous such retreat,

“A chaotic retreat–emotional roller coaster, feet, legs, upper arm, toes, squeaky sides.”

The longer I wait for an other to answer, the later I’ll get to bed.  So the first voice is mine:

“I’m here because these things have become part of my life.  I  have no expectations.”

Yeah.  Right.

*   *   *   *   *

Saturday morning.  Everything usual.  Up at 5 am.  Out of the dorm and on the 5 minute walk to Chan Hall for exercises by 5:10.  Meditation begun at 5:30.  Morning ritual…more meditation…first private interview with Simon, a trainee sitting in.  The purpose of the interview is  for me to receive a huatou, a question, not necessarily answerable, to be used as an exit from my logical thinking and an entry way into whatever is beyond it.  Pleasantries…a pause…the pause continues, then without warning or permission a voice comes from my mouth, a voice that surely is my own, but one not connected to my thoughts or even my mind–a voice coming from somewhere deeper, much deeper:

“There’s something going on.  I don’t know…People I love, care about, they tell me I’m being hostile, nasty to them.  My words, my presentation…they’re really hurt…I’m really hurting them.  I’m not like that.  That’s not me.  I don’t know…

Simon just looks at me.  He’s really good at that.

“I’ve been meditating for 7 years now and I can’t hold focus for more than 4 seconds at a time and I’ve had this pain in my foot since the end of winter, beginning of last spring…neuroma…shots didn’t work.  Neither does this dumb-ass overpriced over-the-counter insole that doesn’t even fit in my shoes when my foot’s in there…Probably need surgery.  I love walking.  I live in a city made for it, and I can’t do it without real pain.  Now my Achilles tendon is messed up and my hip on the other side and sometimes my back because of the way I walk to try to minimize the damned pain.  And other stuff: shoulder and my forearm and my memory–ever since the crash and the concussion a year ago May and nothing’s coming back and when my parents were my age they’d both been dead for 6 years each…”

O my God!

Simon is still silent.

“O…my…God, it’s death, isn’t it?  I’m afraid of dying (or at least the pain of it) and I haven’t even been able to tell myself.  I’m scared shitless and my fucking fear is covered over by anger.  My fucking anger at mortality is coming out as anger toward others…o my God…”

Simon speaks. My huatou:, What is impermanence?  For an undetermined length of time I am to use the tools of silent meditation and monolog presentation when paired with other retreatants to pursue this wherever it might lead.  I fold my hands in prayer-like gassho and bow.  Simon and the trainee respond similarly, and I leave the interview room.

By noon my depression, my sadness is so intense that I seriously consider skipping lunch, going straight to the dorm to pack, hitch hike to the closest railroad station and return to the city.  Yes, I remembered previous retreats.  Yes, I remembered thinking on the way up that there’d be periods of misery like this.  But this was like nothing I’d anticipated.  This was hell! I followed the group into the dining hall, went through the motions of the before-meal prayer, ate, rinsed my plate and bowl and went into the kitchen.

My work meditation assignment was to wash the pots, pans, serving plates and whatever else might find its way to the three sinks after each meal.  Here I was, obsessed with, grappling with an aching body and a mind full of death, and I had to wash the pots.  Here, too, was that something larger and mightier and  vastly truer than my ego-dominated mind.  This manifested at first from my sense of community.  I couldn’t very well skip town leaving sinks full of lunch pots for another.

(Sigh) So I started washing.  At home, at Still Mind Zendo, each Saturday morning meditation concludes with a period of samu, work meditation.  The focus is on the work and only the work, making it a transition from the formality of zazen, sitting meditation to the world at large.  Here to…here too.  As the warm, soapy water embraced my hands, all my attention went to the task.  No awareness of the neuroma, the arthritis, the pulled muscle.  No awareness of missing my mother and father, of the fear of pain and death.  Nothing but the awareness of cleaning pots.

With the work of the moment completed, I went out onto the porch to put on my shoes.  Shoes on retreat, you see, are just a means of transportation like cars and bicycles in other places.  They are used to get from one location to another and are not worn inside.  The air was crisp, cool, midday sunny and upstate crystal clear.  As I wriggled into my boots and back into my sadness, I became aware of the temporary magic or miracle or just Zen-stuff back at the sink.  I remembered that wonderful half hour without suffering.  Then I looked up!

The tree

directly in front of me

looking just like this

was this!             

…and it was surrounded by full, glorious autumn!  And, yes, I was aware of what I had been so overwhelmed by and it was now, again, no more than a set of thoughts and feelings, no more than neurons bouncing around in my brain.  There are innumerable koans, brief stories of Zen monks and masters in which the monk, in the midst some perfectly mundane activity, suddenly realizes enlightenment.  Now I’m not claiming that for myself.  No, I simply rediscovered that there’s nothing like focusing on the real world to get me out of the constructions in my head.  I’ve known this for quite a while now.  I even teach it to my clients, men and women in recovery from suffering, delusion and drugs, directing them to “Get out of your minds and into the world!”

This is simply being mindful.  And, of course, many teachers have pointed out that being simply mindful is not at all difficult.  Remembering to be mindful, however, is another story.

*   *   *   *   *

At the next interview Simon brought me to the next step.  My second huatou, “What is an other?”, was designed to examine my relationship to others–particularly, perhaps, those I’ve hurt with my anger.  And then a third interview, this one completing the circle, the one in which I was again asked, “Why am I here?”

My response, of course, I am here to learn–again–that reality is just fine with me!

Published in: on October 25, 2008 at 11:45 am  Comments (1)  
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Memories are made of this

This has nothing to do with raccoons.  I just found it while looking for something else among the few and scattered remains of what was lost from this computer last crash.  It was written  back in May, undoubtedly for posting, but that somehow never happened.  Could be that my May bike crash in Central Park and subsequent in-head memory crash had something to do with this being side-tracked?  Actually no, that was a year ago May–the one they had in 2007.  At any rate…

Just about twenty-four hours ago, maybe it was forty-eight, I wrote an entry for this space using a method I learned from Natalie Goldberg’s book, Writing down the bones.

Simply, one begins by placing the pen or pencil in the upper left hand corner of a blank page and writes and writes and does nothing but write. No reading what has been written. No correcting spelling or grammatical or punctuation or any other possible errors. No crossing out. Just keep writing until the pre-determined time period has ended or the hand hurts too much or you run out of paper or ink. Being bored or running out of things to write are not legitimate reasons to quit. Rather they become topics of the writing. Something like…

…and so in conclusion let me just restate that never before in the history of human kind have such wonderous thoughts beens s et to paper.  (Damnit, what do I write about now?  I can’t believe that there’s nothing left to say.  Not hing coming to mind at all.  There’s bot to be something to write about.  I promised myself I’d keep this up for at least 20 minutes and I[ve got at least 3 or 4 to go…

Anyhow I had written about working with koans at a seven day Ch’an retreat at the Dharma Drum Retreat Center about 6 weeks ago, about how I’d struggled to the end of my logical abilities to make sense of this Zen puzzle and still came to no answer.  Then, as it is supposed to happen if one is sufficiently open, the investigation jumped outside the realm of the logical.

One afternoon, standing along side a creek rushing with snow melt, all sorts of ego and emotion made their unbidden appearances, and suddenly I was overwhelmed by feelings of nausea and loneliness–the likes of which I’d not felt since my first marriage ended in 1974. Only this time it was quite clear that these feelings were not being thrust upon me.  I was creating them myself–or better–the ego was doing it.
At this point the writing exercise began to imitate the koan work.  I’d reached the end of the koan stuff (I’d thought) but was committed to writing more.  Without planning I found myself describing the interior monolog I produce whenever, on my bike, I approach the top of East Clinton Avenue.  East Clinton is a mammoth stepped hill which descends the New Jersey Palisades a few miles north of the George Washington Bridge.  I can easily reach 45 mph on this descent.  As I near the top, the initial “o boy !” feelings are chased out of my skull by the “what-if” messages of Logic:
What if somebody backs out of a driveway?
Or crosses an intersection?
Or there are pebbles on the road?
Or oil slick appears?
Or some oncoming fool decides on an unsignaled left turn right in front of my zippy ass?
Images of Goldberg as roadkill, of ambulances, of weeping family members as far away as Taiwan compete for space in my cinema brain.
As the descent begins the brain shuts down.  The emotions kick in: anticipation, anxiety, fear.  As I begin the drop feelings progress through outright fear to omygod fear to mind-changing fear to too-late fear to resignation-fear and then…the wondrous white-noise of no feelings as it becomes evident that feelings are as irrelevant as logic.  With feelings gone comes pure response to the ride,  comes “WHEEEE!!!”     Not out of control.  Not in control.  Control is simply no longer a factor.

Now the connector between the koan work and the hill are most neatly stated in another koan:

The priest Shih-shuang said, “How do you step from the top of a hundred-foot pole?”

How, when you’ve reached the limit of your secure, verifiable, testable and provable logical process, do you take that additional step into the insecure, unverifiable…ultimately spiritual realm?  Birds have to be nudged out of the nest.  My long-time-not-seen friend, The Mole, insisted that the only thing to get him to leave the security of his parents’ apartment was them closing the place down and moving out of state.  For many of us  this is that fabled “leap of  faith:” the belief, not that all will work out as we might wish it to, but that this is what is called for at this moment.  And that, whatever happens, we will be able to handle it.

When an addict decides to go sober this selfsame leap of faith is involved.  So too, I think, for the immigrant who moves to a new land without the promise of anything.  It is a remarkable instant in which faith in the universe and faith in self become indistinguishable from each other.  Each then may create his own suffering of fears and hopes (two sides of the same egoistic coin) or, by simply doing what must be done, avoid the suffering, stay better focused on the reality and thereby succeed without having pre-defined success.

At any rate, 24 or 48 hours or so ago when I was at about this point in the exercise, just after I’d launched into a bit about how, when we take these leaps, we leave behind who we were and become whoever comes next, I hit the “save and continue editing” button and the entire essay disappeared.  Disappeared.  Vanished from my hand, screen and memories.  Gone.  Poof !  The life-follows-art conspiracy strikes again.

Another koan:
It is said that throughout his career as a rail-splitter, Abraham Lincoln always had the same ax.  During that time it went through 3 handles and 2 heads.

Published in: on August 3, 2008 at 1:17 pm  Leave a Comment  
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My weekend by Richard G.

Have you not seen the idle man of tao who has nothing to learn or to do?

Who neither discards wandering thoughts nor seeks the truth?

The real nature of ignorance is Buddha nature;

The illusory empty body is the Dharma body.

–from the Song of Enlightenment

by Yung Chia Hsuan Chueh

Temperature in the 96’s and humidity about the same, I spent the morning finishing Tara Brach’s extraordinary book, Radical Acceptance. In a nutshell–a small one, maybe a hazelnut shell, she says that the way to most enjoy and be satisfied with life is to accept it. As my clients at Samaritan Village might say, “It is what it is.” Ms. Brach, however, spends 326 or so pages saying it both beautifully and brilliantly, with examples and exercises and wonderful moments of humanity to remind me that heart comes first in the Buddhist concept of the heart/mind.

Today became day number four in my string of four incredible days in a row, days filled with love, compassion, delight and good food. It all started at work on Thursday when I presented a workshop, “Social Work and the Therapeutic Community,” at the 40th Annual National Association of Social Workers Addictions Institute. The presentation could not have gone better. The audience was enthusiastic and participatory. The material flowed nicely. Even the evaluations at the end looked good.

Back at Samaritan Village in the Highbridge section of the Bronx on Friday, both staff and clients were in extraordinarily good moods– remarkable in that I’d seen/felt nothing like it in my previous 13 years and one day on the job. The clients, all struggling with addiction and legal and family and mental health issues, are now also struggling with the State of New York’s decision that on July 26th (a minute away in their eyes) all substance abuse treatment facilities within the Empire State will become no smoking zones. Not only that, but nicotine addiction will be treated as all other brain-confounding addictions, to wit, no possession of smoking materials or accessories will be allowed; clients and staff seen smoking anywhere will be subject to repurcussions and YES THIS MEANS YOU!!!

We’ve been working to bring this in gradually, with one fewer smoke break per day each month to the point at which we’re now at one per day. We’ve even renamed them “breaks” to get the smoke out of the package. There’ve been Nicotine Addiction classes, free hard candies and NRT (nicotine replacement therapy) devices (e.g., gum, patches, etc.) available to them. Nonetheless we’ve had a high number of clients leaving treatment against clinical advice, often explaining their decision not as showing a desire to return to crack or heroin of reefer or even sex, but resting in the inability to swear off allegiance to Joe Camel and his mentholated cohort.

Why the good mood, then, was anyone’s guess. But there it was, expressed in smiles and laughter and cooperation. I did a couple of very satisfying individual sessions, one unscheduled with a client who just needed a safe place to vent, yet came away from it with much more. There was a wonderful teaching session, also unscheduled and informal, with a young case manager who’s charged with some very demanding clients. And then there was just a looseness and warmth in the staff-staff interactions during the day. Again, why is anyone’s guess.

Saturday after zendo I had lunch with some fellow meditators who’ve taken to discussing matters Zennish over lunch. Those of you who have known me for a while know that when I’m uncomfortable with anything I’ll either withdraw and spend my time wishing 1, that I had the balls to say something; and 2, wishing I was elsewhere; or 3, blowing up at the wrong thing, creating a mess and 4, wishing I was dead. Without going into the details of what got me bent seriously out of shape this time, let me just report that I was able to articulate what was going on with me and, to the best of my understanding, why I was able to to mention out loud the knot in the belly, the inability to intellectually comprehend what was being discussed along with the attendant sadness and frustration, the desire to be better able to participate, the desire to find a way to apply what was being said to my own quest for a richer life experience–all this without casting blame or mentioning anyone’s mother.

Phenomenal! I couldn’t help but feel like a grown-up.

And then came today. (Incidentally the pictures of the cats have nothing to do with the words here, but I couldn’t resist them. I’m not a “cat person,” but Fred and Mrs. Sipowicz are beauties.)

In an unrelated development–but one of great interest–my friend, Alix Loranace is having a show of Selected Prints entitled ” Amazing Women.” The show is at the

Ocean County Artists Guild

Ocean & Chestnut Avenues

Island Heights, N.J

It will run through June 30th.

If you have a way to get there, get there!

You can go to


to see a series we ran here a while back.

Published in: on June 8, 2008 at 5:39 pm  Comments (2)  
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It was 1967 or maybe ’68 or even 1969…

…and the folks pictured above made up the editing crew of the movie “Alice’s Restaurant.” Back then that meant something. To some folks–including me, the one bottom center above–it meant a lot. I was going to have a career in film, I was. (Those of you who knew me then might want to smile, chuckle or even guffaw here.) A couple of blog entries ago–maybe just the last one–I described losing everything in my computer done on Wordperfect: my writing, poems, work-related materials and my resume. Today I discovered that my film resume, the list of movies, documentaries and tv shows I worked on from 1967 thru 1990–my work life before social work–has also disappeared. All this after a concussion last May and the disappearance of many of the more charming parts of my memory…

So what!? Nothing lasts forever–and here I’m also thinking of my abilities to throw a baseball accurately, drink more than one tequila a night and make love remembering the last time I’d done so. (This last point isn’t all that accurate, but it seemed so cute when I thought of it.) Frankly this is not a new discovery on my part. Somewhere back some decades ago I wrote out a list of names under the heading, “People I Thought Would Always Be My Friends Who Aren’t.” Given all the anger that undoubtedly went into that list, you’d–or I’d–think I’d remember who was on it. Nope. All gone.

So what’s my point? Is this posting an affirmation of the Buddhist teaching of impermanence or the medical teaching of Alzheimer’s Disease? Is it about sadness or resignation? No! Actually there is no point. It’s just about noticing one more aspect of what’s going on with me right about now. Nothing more than one part of a very diverse and active portfolio of love, work and play, of creativity and activity and even passivity–all with a great deal of smiling.

Here’s a smile or three:



Published in: on May 26, 2008 at 8:28 pm  Comments (1)  
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Love Makes the World Go Round–or–Seven Days in March

Chan HallThe third week in March I participated in a 7-day silent Koan Retreat at Dharma Drum Retreat Center in upstate Pine Bush, New York. Seven days spent focusing on a short exchange between a head monk and a zen master written maybe a thousand years ago. 7 days of silence. No “hellos,” “howahyas,” no “pass the salts,” “‘scuse mes” or any other words. Really! Aside from chanting and my part in three 20 minute interviews with John and Simon, our leaders, I said nothing. (Those of you who know me may smile here.) Plenty of time to ponder.

Koans are short renderings of exchanges between zen personalities or reports of their doings. They’re constructed so as to both provoke and defeat thought, ultimately turning investigators away from their habitual thought processes (read: ruts) and thus opening to fresh ways of seeing. ( Imagine a blocked railroad train jumping off its track and dancing in field.)

The retreat’s first full day was devoted to arriving, to transitioning from our daily routines to the peace and simplicity of just being there: a day of simple meditation on the breath and adjustment to the fully choreographed 5 a.m. to 10 p.m. schedule.

On the second day we were directed to pick the koan or huatou (basically the punch line of a koan, used commonly by Ch’an (the Chinese parent of Zen) with which to work for the remainder of the retreat.

“Pick the one you feel has some connection to you,” was the only guidance here. Eagerly I read through the dozen or so choices. Several times I read through them, but found myself drawn to none. No problem though. Remembering the old Zen saying, “Don’t just do something. Stand there!,” I confidently picked none. See, I’m at my best when I’m not in my own way. I’ve noticed this more and more at work. My most successful interventions with clients–particularly in emotionally charged situations–come when I don’t know what to say, but just allow the words (or silences) to appear. So, knowing (believing?) that the appropriate choice would bubble up on its own without my intellect and emotions interfering, I opted to go with whatever I heard my voice say. It said, “I pick this one:”

Head monk asked the master, “How is it that pure, original nature immediately gives rise to mountains, rivers, and the great earth?” The master replied in a loud voice, “How is it that pure, original nature immediately gives rise to mountains, rivers and the great earth?” The head monk suddenly understood.

My brain, of course, immediately demanded, “So whydya pick this one?” I immediately responded, “Its repetition makes it easier for you, my concussion-damaged brain, to memorize.” Of course that wasn’t it.

Next came periods of sitting, walking, working and eating meditations on the koan. Brainwork–developing chains of logic, piles of clues, heartfelt examinations of whatever emotions came along–told me I was onto something. O, what a brain! Soo smart! But first there two minor matters that had to be brought into compliance with it’s emerging theory.

The master spoke loudly, but with what inflection? Did he simply mirror back the head monk’s intonation only louder to call greater attention to it? Was he cynical? Were his words simply loud words, nothing but the disconnected flatness of one’s words into a telephone repeated by the voice of an automated respondent: “Click one if you said one…seventyfive…west7-ty…six…streeeet…?” Was his volume angry? Was it lyrical? Curious? Did that matter?

Whatever the voice, what was the intention? Not the meaning, though. There’s never meaning in these things. Meaning in Zenland is no more than an overlay, an addition, an arbitrary and gratuitous mind product. It’s not part of reality. I explored all these possibilities if only casually. Something had begun to call me and I was not about to be distracted from it.

As for the question being asked and repeated, not for a minute did I take the business of the pure, original nature’s activity as having to do with the heart of things. I, in my ungrounded wisdom, knew it wasn’t about that. In perhaps my third interview, when I was asked, “How is it that pure, original nature immediately gives rise to mountains, rivers and the great earth,” I replied without thought, “It has no choice. That’s what it does for a living.” I believe that answer was greeted with a smile. But, as I do, I get ahead of myself.

My first response to the koan was that, indeed, the head monk did suddenly understand. Yes, I knew that koans sometimes lie, but still, it did say so. More than that, I wanted him to succeed if only as an encouragement for my success. See, at this point, despite all the teaching, I really wanted to solve this koan, to get it right, to be the Zen Star of the Retreat. In fact, some part of my brain was already rehearsing a fittingly modest silent acceptance response to the unspoken accolades of my teachers and fellow meditators.

Here’s where the brain was going: my logic, arising from my work as a therapist, rested in the belief that clients held their own answers (so why not the head monk?) and that by mirroring, by repeating what they’d say, we cool and spiritual therapists simply direct them lovingly and respectfully back to their own insights. Clearly the master, no matter what his intonation, was doing what I’d do. Thus I could identify with him as well as with the head monk. Hell, this was truly all about me and I had this thing coming and going and my life approach was being validated in the process and who could possibly doubt my stardom?

At my first interview with John Crook, the retreat’s prime leader, I told him what I’ve told you. We talked warmly, almost conversationally about my findings. I felt soo good! He concluded that I’d made a “good start”. I left the interview swimming in “GOOD” and ignoring “start.”

More sitting, walking, eating, sleeping, chanting and working. I maintained the men’s bathroom (cleaning floors, urinals, toilet bowls and sinks, stocking toilet paper hand towels, soap and hand lotion) and water station (stocking teas–no sugar please, napkins and cups) in the meditation hall. Then, 2 days later, an interview with Simon Child, the second leader: Simon took photos during retreats. Last year he actually came upon a bear and snapped it a few times. His easy-going presentation complemented John’s scholarly precision. Both have marvelously developed senses of humor. I looked forward to sharing my conclusions with Simon. Conclusions, I say, because 2 days of subsequent meditation on the koan hadn’t moved me an inch from my findings as reported to John. In fact, I was so sure of my self that I often returned to counting breaths during zazen (sitting meditation) rather than work at all on the koan. When you’ve got it, you’ve got it.

And so it was with great pride (humbly rendered) that I voiced my flawless findings to Simon. Simon at first looked at me quietly. Then, and I’ll never know how he did this, his face morphed from that of a delightful family physician completely into that of a fierce, bushy eyebrowed scowling zen master monster. “By selecting your approach,” he said in a voice so powerful it needn’t be loud, “you’ve bypassed all the other possibilities.”

Damn! Damn damn damn!!!

I was instantly devastated. The brain’s confidence and pride (“ego” seems to fit here nicely) suddenly lay shattered on the interview room floor. I’d been good-cop/bad-copped! I’d been stripped of my strengths. I was…I was……back on my mat, kneeling toward the great wooden Buddha, feeling weak and empty and, yes, stupid. But again something was happening. I’d latched onto an understanding of the koan based on a very personal, ego-based logic, and however arbitrary it might be, to me it was compelling…compelling. Suddenly this was no longer about right or wrong or stardom or defeat. Again something was happening! Feelings fell away as I realized this had become about…commitment! In my life I’d made and would undoubtedly continue to make commitments here and there based on things deeper than intelligence, things deeper than feelings.

Now love came into the picture. This time, for the first time, I knew what that meant: love that is beyond the popular emotion and in my understanding ultimately motivates pure, original nature–the one that immediately gives rise to mountains, rivers, the great earth and (o my God!) me!

I’d left the head monk and the master half way around the world in another millennium and made the koan mine, made it an endlessly wide road of undetermined length and no particular direction. The koan had become my life koan.

And I knew that, should I bring this to him, John would smile and tell me that my good start was continuing. Simon, on the other hand, just might show me a photo of a bear.


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Published in: on April 5, 2008 at 1:56 pm  Comments (1)  
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Empty Hallways

If you want to get Buddhist about it, nothing has a beginning, but this story does. It begins at 5:25 a.m. on last September 10th, and that’s the problem. You see, all this takes place at a five day Western Zen Retreat at Dharma Drum Retreat Center in Pine Bush, New York. My job as a retreatant (along with cleaning the meditation hall men’s bathroom and maintaining the water station) was to wake up each morning at 4:55 a.m. so as to wake the other men living in the men’s dormitory at 5 a.m. so that we could all show up for morning exercises which began at 5:20 a.m.O.K., so this story begins at 5:25 when a monk/retreatant stands in the dorm hallway and claps his hands loudly and repeatedly until he is satisfied that no sleeper–including me– remains among us. Simply put, I’d screwed up. Either I’d mis-set the alarm clock or was relying on a defective alarm clock (later extensive investigation an testing revealed that it had worked both before and after this incident, although it–or I–would fail again two days later.)

Immediately my brain was beset by The Voices: “Fuck up! Idiot! You did it, didn’t ya? All the guys are late and you did it. Chan tradition, Zen tradition, thousands of years of people showing up when they’re supposed to and now you’ve blown it. Look at you, nobody that you are, lying there in your sweaty sleeping bag having destroyed the entire legacy of Shakyamuni Gautama Buddha, Avalokiteshvara, Bodhidharma, the Sixth Patriarch, Venerable Master Sheng Yen, Pima Chodron and your favorite poet, whose name I’ll not allow you to remember, you miserable portion of turkey ballast. You and your pitiful $7 alarmclock. Pack that clock, boy. Pack it and slink your slimy ass out of here before all those who truly love the Buddha, the Dharma and the Sangha, pull out their vegetable cleavers and turn you into celery pate.”And this was just the beginning, the warm-up. The voices were just finding stride, and I, lost in guilt, remorse and masochism, could do no more than whimper “yeah” and “How could I…?” and “What’s wrong with me?” and “I really did it this time” and, of course, “Shit.”

This duet, the anger of The Voices and the simpering self-denigration of my responses, continued for hours. Through morning meditation, through the opening ceremony, through walk back to the dining room, breakfast, my walk back to the meditation hall to clean the bathroom and check the water station and then through the walk back to the dorm for rest period, ringing my little bell along the way to alert others to the end of morning work period. My rest, of course, was no rest at all. With not only The Voices to keep me anxious but also my fear that I’d fail to alert my fellow retreatants to the end of rest period, I non-rested bolt upright in a plastic chair in the silence of my room of shame. No peace. No hiding place.

My morning, this as it was, continued as just that. Although I got everyone alerted to the end of rest and the beginning of the morning dharma talk, I remained trapped inside my head. Of course I heard nothing, the instructor’s normal speaking voice being no match for the yelling of The Voices. Next came the first communications exercise of the day. Each of us had been assigned a question by one of the instructors, the kind of question, like “Who am I?” or “What is life?” that can lead to a universe of self-discovery. We would pair off, and each would speak in answer to his/her question for five minutes. The listener could do no more than listen. No feedback of any kind: words, facial expressions, body language all prohibited. Then roles would be reversed, then again and again and again and again. Each would speak three times. Each would listen three times.

My partner, Elizabeth, and I were midway through the second go round when she was called out by an instructor for daisan, a private instruction. I was left with The Voices, so the self-castigation continued. With no distractions and no shelter, the attack escalated well beyond merciless. By the time she returned The Voices had gone all out and were finally exhausted. I was an empty emotional corpse. Now here’s where all this finally gets interesting. As she approached me, I noticed new activity within my body. My posture straightened. My back and calves stopped aching. My head straightened. Internally I felt the self-pitying fog lift from my brain. Energy returned. Clarity appeared. All evidence and residue of the morning’s misery was utterly gone, replaced by a great positive influx of the most joyful and dynamic energy. But from where?Partner Elizabeth’s interview had been wonderful. She had reached a successful understanding of her question and had been given another. She felt overwhelmingly positive, and I was the one being overwhelmed. Her energy was simply flowing into the vacuum left by my tormentor’s success and evacuation. For that wonderful moment my emptiness became the receptacle for her delight.

Was this the emptiness Buddhism speaks of? Had I spent a moment in being truly free of my self? I mean, it really was great. Kind of like being not a perpetrator or a victim. Just being an observer. Yeah…just an observer…nice.

But surely there must be a more pleasant way to attain this. Five hours of self-flagellation can’t be the only way in. Then I remembered…meditation.

O, yeah.

Published in: on September 24, 2007 at 10:03 am  Comments (3)  
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Noon.  September 2, 2007.  Washington Heights.  Temperature 75.  Sun brilliant.

Sky possessing a clarity that poets, dying, wish they had lived to see.

St. Nicholas Avenue awash with life, color, motion, sounds and smells–yet peaceful, harmonious.

Room for everything and everything fits.

Down a block B-REAL peeks at us

Jumps out at us black in white in this full color world

(Bobbie & me, out scouting

carrying ice cube trays, corn, kiwis, a book.)

Half smiling, that maybe once famous B-REAL half smile

The smile that got him laid?  Killed?  The smile his mother loved? That others envied?  “How he smile like that anyway?”  Beyond compelling.  Demanding!  “Get your asses down here!  Check out our blog!”

A one lot park, paved for basketball   pict0008.jpg

A lone teenger (a B-REAL wannabe?) standing in the entrance rolls off to allow us in, never looking our way or otherwise acknowledging our existence.

Leaving us alone with B-REAL

and Rudy (Don’t drink and drive!)pict0003.jpg

and Ali (Don’t neglect your health!)    pict0004.jpg

Dazzled by art, saddened by death on this one more perfect day.

Saddened by art, dazzled by death on this same perfect day in Washington Heights.


Published in: on September 2, 2007 at 5:26 pm  Comments (2)  

Gone, Gone, Gone Beyond…

Just about twenty-four hours ago, maybe it was forty-eight, I wrote an entry for this space using a method I learned from Natalie Goldberg’s book, Writing down the bones. Simply, one begins by placing the pen or pencil in the upper left hand corner of a blank page and writes and writes and does nothing but write. No reading what has been written. No correcting spelling or grammatical or punctuation or any other possible errors. No crossing out. Just keep writing until the pre-determined time period has ended or the hand hurts too much or you run out of paper or ink. Being bored or running out of things to write are not legitimate reasons to quit. Rather they become topics of the writing. Something like…

…and so in conclusion let me just restate that never before in the history of human kind have such wonderous thoughts beens s et to paper. (Damnit, what do I write about now? I can’t believe that there’s nothing left to say. Not hing coming to mind at all. There’s bot to be something to write about. I promised myself I’d keep this up for at least 20 minutes and I[‘ve got at least 3 or 4 to go…

Anyhow I had written about working with koans at a seven day Ch’an retreat at the Dharma Drum Retreat Center about 6 weeks ago, about how I’d struggled to the end of my logical abilities to make sense of this Zen puzzle and still came to no answer. Then, as it is supposed to happen if one is sufficiently open, the investigation jumped outside the realm of the logical. One afternoon, standing along side a creek rushing with snow melt, all sorts of ego and emotion made their unbidden appearances, and suddenly I was overwhelmed by feelings of nausea and loneliness–the likes of which I’d not felt since my first marriage ended in 1974. Only this time it was quite clear that these feelings were not being thrust upon me. I was creating them myself–or better–the ego was doing it.

At this point the writing exercise began to imitate the koan work. I’d reached the end of the koan stuff (I’d thought) but was commited to writing more. Without planning I found myself describing the interior I encounter whenever, on my bike, I approach the top of East Clinton Avenue. East Clinton is a mammoth stepped hill which descends the New Jersey Palisades a few miles north of the George Washington Bridge. I can easily reach 45 mph on this descent. As I near the top, the initial “o boy!” thoughts are chased out of my skull by the “what-if” messages of Logic:What if somebody backs out of a driveway?Or crosses an intersection?Or there are pebbles on the road?

Or oil slick?

Or some oncoming fool decides on an unsignaled left turn right in front of your zippy ass?

Images of Goldberg as roadkill, of ambulances, of weeping family members as far away as Taiwan compete for space in my cinema brain.

Here the brain shuts down and the emotions kick in: anticipation, a kind of wordless concern, anxiety, fear. As I begin the drop feelings progress into outright fear, omygod fear, mind-changing fear, resignation-fear and then…a white-noise of no feelings as it becomes evident that feelings are as irrelevant as logic. With feelings gone comes pure response to the ride, comes “WHEEEE!!! Not out of control. Not in control. Control is simply no longer a factor.

Now the connector between the koan work and the hill are most neatly stated in another koan:

The priest Shih-shuang said, “How do you step from the top of a hundred-foot pole?”

How, when you’ve reached the limit of your secure, verifiable, testable and provable logical process, to you take that additional step into the insecure, unverifiable…ultimate spiritual realm? Birds have to be nudged out of the nest. My long-time-not-seen friend, The Mole, insisted that the only thing to get him to leave the security of his parents’ apartment was them closing the place down and moving out of state. For many of us it is that “leap of faith, the belief, not that all will work out as we might wish it to, but that this is what is called for at this moment. Beyond that, whatever happens we will be able to handle it.

When an addict decides to go sober this selfsame leap of faith is involved. So too, I think, for the immigrant who moves to a new land without the promise of anything. Each may create his own suffering of fears and hopes (two sides of the same egoistic coin) or, by simply doing what must be done, avoid the suffering, stay better focused on the reality and thereby increase chances of success.

At any rate, 24 or 48 hours or so ago when I was at about this point in the exercise, just after I’d launched into a bit about how, when we take these leaps, we leave behind who we were and become whoever comes next, I hit the “save and continue editing” button and the entire essay disappeared. Disappeared. Vanished from my hand. Gone. Poof! The life-follows-art conspiracy strikes again.

Another koan:

It is said that throughout his career as a rail-splitter, Abraham Lincoln always had the same axe. During that time he went through 3 handles and 2 heads.

Published in: on April 16, 2007 at 9:03 am  Comments (1)  
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Here’s the thing about Zen…

A few hours ago I arrived home after a 3 day sesshin with my Still Mind Zendo mates at a retreat house run by Franciscan Sisters up in Garrison, NY. Actually, I got back from helping drop off a large pile of zabutons, zafus, seiza benches, a bell & striker,an incense holder and maybe some other stuff at our in-town space on West 17th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues. Still Mind Zendo, that’s us. It was raining lightly. There was a great deal of traffic, part of it caused by the Chocolate Show around the corner.

It was just right. Manhattan is like that–just right, that is–when I’ve been away for a while. Even a brief while. And not even that far away. Even this time when while away my thoughts never turned to Manhattan or my work in The Bronx or to loved ones or to anything other than the work at hand: mediation…sort of…

All that sounds good. And there is some truth in it. What really goes on in situations like that–or more specifically: this– is not like that, however. What goes on is that for 24 25 minute periods of zazen (sitting meditation) and 16 10-or-so periods of kinhin (walking meditation) my mind flees from the approved foci of breath or feet to whatever comes down the pike. And when the pike is empty it creates:

The foggy image of a clear glass of lemonade with fading blue/green spots maybe on the glass, maybe suspended in the lemonade.

Accompanying a girlfriend of 20 years ago to a loft in a fancifully relocated garment district where, the pasha-like owner, in flowing pastel robes and spread out graciously (not gracefully) on a chez lounge, looks at me disdainfully and comments in tones so low that I must ask him to repeat himself three times, “Too much butter.”

Great pools of golden brown honey spread out on the floor between the rows of meditators.

Why do I know what “aspect ratios” are and why can’t I think of what they are right now?

Is it more masculine to order your steak really rare or really burned? Remember that Billy Crystal thing on old SNL, “Que es mas macho: Ricardo Montalban or that other guy? Who was that other guy anyway?

Renewed determination to watch the breath proves to be no more solid than the lemonade or the honey or my attempt at bravado when I reply to the “butter” remark, “My baby says she wants all the me she can get.” Breath is the last thing in this or any other world my mind finds interesting.

At daisan (a private talk with one’s teacher) a while later I tell my teacher that my practice on the cushion is at just about the same place it occupied five years ago: a game preserve for monkey mind. Monkey mind, that’s what we in the meditation game call a mind that jumps all over the place without getting permission from the owner. Greg, my teacher, pauses for a moment and then comments in this wonderful combination of drama and casualness, “Sometimes it’s monkey mind. Sometimes it’s something else.”


Yeah! He’s right! From a very deep place in me there is a seismic rumbling of the kind of satisfaction that can come only from real understanding. Not quite enlightenment, but certainly a step on that road. Sometimes it is something else. And before monkey mind can run back to the delicatessen or into a new version of the color blue I connect with my slimy little ego telling me to give up the Zen thing because I’ve got bigger fish to fry (or, in a healthier vein, poach) so let’s get lost. How about that Chet Baker. Remember when you saw him at Stryker’s on 86th Street and Pedro who used to be the bartender at the Annex on Avenue B was–-Monkey mind and ego in an unholy alliance, a partnership of subversives, a brace of not-to-be-denied terrorists hellbent on destroying my path to karmic harmony…

I was writing about something, right?

Anyhow, the bell rings. We gassho (it’s a zen thing) when it rings again, stretch our legs and eventually stand and go into walking meditation…after that some sitting meditation, walking…

Sooner than I’d want it’s over, we’ve packed up, driven back to The City, unpacked, dumped me into the #3 train (“Local trains are not running at this time”), where I marvel at the whole idea of traveling in a train underground and at the 40 or so faces visible to me as we all ride together.

Published in: on November 15, 2006 at 8:20 pm  Leave a Comment  

A Bunch of Poems

Sleepless in a chair

I glance at our bed:

Pale light on the pillow

on your sleeping face.

Not a poem.  Not a dream.

I hear your winter breathing

and close my book.

*   *   *


When his wagon became

trapped in deep Russian snow,

the wood-gatherer, my grandfather

cut loose his horse

and came to America.

Why do I think of this now?

*   *   *


A car alarm wails.

I pray for the thief’s swift success.

*   *   *


Close up

the tall beautiful woman

at the far end of the car

is a boy.

*   *   *


I look ahead

the hill is steep.

I look behind

the valley’s deep.

I look straight down

the road is flat.

*   *   *

Saturday night outside my window:

shouts, squeals, honks, laughter–

the raucous roar and splatter of life.

There is no noise.

*   *   *


In all his wandering, meditation

and joyful drunkenness

playing ball with the children

visiting the ladies

Ryokan, great hermit poet Zen monk child-at-heart

never got to imagine himself

sitting in an eighth floor apartment

in new York City!

Hissing waves of traffic

rising and falling slowly–

this cold March morning rain.

*   *   *

One brief horn honk

thru the cool morning rain

reveals the world.

*   *   *

Enjoy your writing

While you write–

Tomorrow your critic

May overthrow your muse.

*   *   *


Today a client sat with me

eyes swollen in tears

refusing to speak

of his dead young son

lest that death become

real for him.

Thirty-nine years have passed

since you left this floating world.

Where have those four decades gone?

*   *   *

Do I like meditation, you ask.

No…no, I don’t like it

nor do I dislike it.

What, you then ask

do I get from it?

Nothing I can

put my finger on.

*   *   *

A patch of sunlight

a window’s shadow

moves off my leg

an across the bare wood floor.

Now long ago

friends and I

would pass warm aftenoons

in the timelessness

of shared wine.

Where are they now?

Do they live?

Do they remember?

(Not all that long before my friend Ed Rothkowitz passed I sent him this poem.  He replied, “Here, yes and yes.”)

*   *   *

When my father died

Spring flowers died

and all shades of Summer green

became the same.

Air was airless

the brilliant sun blinding.

*   *   *

Sadhu                                                                                                                                                       One of tens of thousands                                                                                                                                               Just like you and me–                                                                                                                                                               Really.

Published in: on November 14, 2006 at 11:17 pm  Leave a Comment