Steering Toward the Curves

I struggled against the wind and rain, in the dark, driving across the cattle plains of South Texas. Squall lines roared in off the Gulf of Mexico. The inky, black emptiness of the prairie made the refinery lights look like cities across a big lake. Biblical torrents of rain filled ditches and slathered the road. Air cushion shocks make my ride nice and smooth, but with every gust of wind, the cab lurched on its squishy platform. Right after, the trailer leaned over like a schooner digging her leeward rail. Each squall line brought its own series of sickening double lunges.

Then two lanes funneled down to one and shifted off center in a construction zone. I hurtled through a swerving, narrow pass only a roller coaster masochist could dream up. There was mud and gravel to my left and a continuous line of Jersey barriers to the right. The rain gave everything a sinister reptilian slickness. In the skittering gleam of my headlights, it all rose and fell like the ribs of a cement and asphalt striped lizard.

Flying through, my forward motion animated the ruts and ravines of construction mud. A flash and crack of lightning woke the beast and tentacles of mud began to writhe. Every ditch was a mudbound kraken waiting to pull me into a slimy abyss.

On the right, the ghosts of a thousand traffic fatalities howled against the barrier surfaces; like hamsters clawing at aquarium glass. In their deafening silent screams, I heard the story of each hellish demise. Their agony could only be mitigated if my trailer clipped the barrier with a staccato ricochet and I joined their plaintive chorus after my own diesel fueled apocalypse.

In real life late night driving, if the tires on just one side of my truck got into that mud, I might as well be drug down by giant muddy tentacles. Likewise, in the pinch points of the curves, too tight a turn could cause the trailer to catch on a barrier. The impending disaster would be dramatic and just as likely acrobatic. I was hauling a light load down to McAllen, but still must have had 40,000 or 50,000 pounds of momentum twisting, turning and lunging.

When a driver concentrates too much too close, the tension builds with every yard of asphalt. Pretty soon, the steering wheel is jittering back and forth in a thousand desperate micro-corrections, while the foot unconsciously lifts off the accelerator. Every driver panics the first time through or they're lying about it.

You have to start with faith in the system. The construction workers are going to set it all up so that trucks can make it through. How could they not? Besides, a hundred trucks have already gone through ahead of you. If there is no wreckage blocking your way, they've made it.

After that leap of faith, the key is to take a deep breath, slow down a little if you must, and look a little further down the road. If you steer to the curves as they come toward you, rather than worry about what's up close, you will make it easily. Success comes with smoothly anticipating your way rather than reacting in a panic.

Life is a lot like getting through a construction zone at night – in the rain. Take a deep breath, trust you can get through and then steer toward the curves that are a little further down the road.

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Image used without permission. Lifted from http://ozplasmic.deviantart.com

A Wreck on the Highway

A small disc of fabric cartwheeled across the highway as I was catching the wrecker. We were just getting through Chattanooga, TN and the traffic was finally thinning out. My truck didn't quite have the oomph to pass in the mountains, so I backed off the cruise control and stayed in the granny lane.

The throttle governor that limits the speed of the truck can be frustrating. I'm not opposed to governors per se, but none are set at exactly the same speed. If you're behind a truck whose governor is just a half mile an hour slower than your own, you will catch up to it and feel like you need to pass. Trouble is if you're only going a half mile an hour faster, it will take you 10 minutes to get by the slower truck - on the flat. In the mountains of Tennessee, hauling a heavy load, passing was just not practical. After swallowing my pride and settling in behind the wrecker, I began to notice the debris. The wrecker wasn't towing anything but appeared to be following the truck ahead of him.

Little things catch my eye out on the highway. The wrecker hit a patch of road debris that scattered spectacularly. The clumps of fibers, some kind of stuffing, burst like a hive of snow snakes. Bouncing on an expansion joint, the truck in front of the wrecker scattered little clods of dirty that trailed dust toward the shoulder like they were smoking.

As we dropped into one of those beautiful Appalachian valleys, three or four more little pieces of fabric danced across the highway in a cascade of delicate sadness. It was then I squinted into the twilight, suddenly curious of the truck in front of the wrecker. I felt a pinch in my chest as his cargo came into focus. I could see it fine, even in the dwindling evening light, but my brain struggled to make sense of it. Unusual finger shapes, like an open hand slightly askew, trembled as they bounced down the highway. The truck, a flat bed, was carrying the nearly unrecognizable remains of a completely burned out semi tractor. Two corner edges of the sleeper were the anguished skyward fingers. In the hints of a cab, I finally realized the grim tale before me.

Did the driver survive? Was he inside when the fire started? Was it an accident? Were there others involved? I hadn't yet wired my CB radio, so I couldn't inquire. Either driver in the somber convoy would have had no obligation to respond anyway. I could only sit and wonder. The upholstery was burst open like popcorn, shedding swatches of fabric. The mattress, still in there somewhere, couldn't keep its own stuffing from jumping out in the wind. The smoking clods must have been ashes or the residue from fire extinguishers.

Passing a truck accident can give me pause, but following a wreck for over a hundred miles, I was quiet as a pallbearer for two hours. Unanswered questions rolled around in my head. All I could do was consider the possible explanations and openly offer my compassion and empathy as the silent forests buzzed by.

Naturally, I thought that could have been my truck. Three years ago, I had already driven a half a million miles. Now that I've started  driving again, I am back in this statistical pool. But this is not a preachy, stilted riff on being safer and more vigilant on the road. As I drove up I-75, following the nightmare possibility of the burnt cab, I was struck by the beauty of impermanence. The driving might be just a job, but the drive through the lush valleys and vivid green forests of Eastern Tennessee was beautiful. Besides the traffic and the hum drum of whatever it is each day, this job is a tour of wonder. Instead of sitting at a desk in front of the same patch of wall, or feeding lumber into the same machine all day, I get to sit here and watch beautiful sunrises, wonderful mountain vistas and stars reflecting on rivers. 

I also see pollution billowing from smokestacks, trash along highway shoulders, and completely wrecked semi tractors. There is beauty and there are troubling sights, but all are impermanent. The Buddhist concept of impermanence is often misunderstood. Some think it must be a certain emotionless, Spock-like aloofness. In my opinion, to deeply accept impermanence is to cherish the beauty in each moment we have, in the people we're with, in whatever stuff we have – just then. Everything, and everyone, is impermanent and therefore all are beautiful. Just like cherry blossoms or fall colors, the allure is the beautiful sight that you were privileged to see at that moment. Whether you're driving a truck, working at a desk or feeding a machine, consider it a privilege. Shunryu Suzuki Roshi used to say “Just to be alive is enough.” Once each moment is seen as a privilege, one can relax and just enjoy life.

Dharma of the Floating Floor

Traditionally, the word 'Sangha' referred to the community of Buddhist monks and nuns. Today, especially in the West, the term denotes the entire community of Buddhist practitioners, lay and ordained. In Western Protestant terms, Sangha is the church community of a Buddhist temple. We have our regulars, people who attend when they can, and we're often blessed with new faces as well.

In less than two years, the Sangha had outgrown the little storefront temple space in which we had started. The search for bigger accommodations was arduous, and we feared that we would have to leave the downtown Grand Rapids area. In the end, however, we found a wonderful location in the 400 block of South Division, just up the hill from the new downtown farmers market. The bigger space needed new paint, new flooring and lots of clean up.

Our expanded version of the Three Refuges Chant refers to the Sangha as the “shining light that supports me.” In fixing up our new temple space, we got to experience that support in more tangible ways. Working together strengthened the fiber of our community. There was plenty of work to go around, and we all chipped in on the various projects. Thoughtful Sangha members brought food in to replenish the energy spent on all the good work.

One of the last projects was installing a laminate floor, sometimes called a floating floor, in the Dharma Hall. Four of us began the work early on a Saturday morning. Alisha had already started working with the planks and had developed a system. She taught us to lock a short end into the last plank, bend the long edge just so, hook it into the previous row, and then tap the plank into place with a block and hammer. Some of us were instructed it was a finesse job, others needed to whack at it – based on our potential for damage. It took a couple tries to get the hang of it, but soon we were all tapping away. A floating floor grows diagonally across a room as you lay it down similar to putting up a brick wall, but horizontally.

During the day, the crew had time to chat and share stories, and along the way we chuckled at the small gems of wisdom we were stumbling upon. Sage-like, Alisha instructed us to “Be patient, it doesn't look like anything is happening, but it is.” As the shiny new laminate overtook the rough subflooring, someone said “look, there is more floor than not floor.” Another reminded that it was “all floor anyway.” Good people and a common cause can make hard work go more easily. It was a long day, but in the end the hall looked wonderful – even without the base moulding installed.

As I drove home and pondered a job well done by a bunch of volunteers, I felt the warm support of my community. We had come together, grown together and did some good work too. That night the temple was still not quite finished but every day it was a more special place than the day before. It occurred to me that the more tightly knit Sangha was even more supportive, more conducive to the deepening of each other's experience. This intangible community support was given a physical expression in the tapping of laminate floor planks. As each of us crawled around on the floor, working on our own row of planks, we could actually feel the help of the others as their tapping reverberated through the floor. It seemed to me like the heartbeat of the Sangha.

Paint Roller Nirvana

The most useful insights often seem so simple afterward it is embarrassing to relate them. My day job is in the Finishing Department at a company that builds wind turbine blades – very large wind turbine blades. We sand, prep and paint a blade 45 meters long, weighing 10 tons. Moreover, because this is a new contract, and we are a relatively new company, a 150 foot long paint booth has not yet been built. Therefore, the blades are painted by roller to keep the operation within environmental regulations. It is quite a task to paint a 150 foot long wind turbine blade with a 9” paint roller.

I'm one of the lucky few who often have a paint roller handle in hand. Not long ago, I was painting a blade with a partner who is a little quiet, reflective even. We do just fine in conversation, but we will occasionally go for long stretches without much talking; which is just fine, it turns out, with both of us. Painting starts at the blade's tip with a team of two on each side. After the first several meters, the blade gets tall enough that the other team might as well be in another building.

We were painting along in silence. The paint we use is a heavy paint for ship decks imported from Germany. In our routine, the first painter slops a lot of paint on the blade with a roller just sopped and dripping. The second painter re-rolls the surface with a slightly dry roller, smoothing it out and catching any defects. As the second painter, I was doing this clean up and had nothing on my mind but watching the effects of my partner's painting, and re-rolling the blade's surface. At a certain point, I was completely lost in the gentle, undulating rhythm. I'd pick a spot, about a half roller width off of the previous strokes and reach way down under the bottom of the blade to start a long stroke toward the other edge, sometimes as much as 15 feet high. Up, and then reaching down again, I simply watched the texture and coverage of the soft grey paint as I rolled.

As we neared the other end, what we call the root, I realized that I had been humming along for half an hour or more without really thinking about anything. I had practically become the paint roller itself, not existing in any essential way outside of the function of the painting. Before we began cleaning up, I stopped and stared at the long blade. It is more like a bird's wing than that of an airplane. From the muscular root, it curves upward and crests to flow down again toward a graceful curve, like the wing of a Swallow. The other guys, had they noticed, would have presumed that I was admiring our work. Actually, I was reflecting on the ease at which I had blissed out. My concentration had been such that all else had disappeared. Sure, thoughts came and went like usual, but I had not grabbed hold of them. The thoughts became fleeting gossamer wisps rather than the first scatter of pebbles before an avalanche.

This Paint Roller Nirvana taught me a much easier way into my meditation. Even the most basic instructions will tell you that 'thinking about not-thinking' will get you nowhere. Concentration is prescribed as the solution. I've spent the last several years trying to develop this “single pointed concentration;” so called Samadhi. For the most part, this vague goal had escaped me. I'm not saying that I've always got it now, but it is definitely easier to enter after the paint roller.

Using my breath while meditating was not concrete enough for me. I kept seeking concentration separately. Counting my breath was something that I did while I searched the caverns of my psyche for some concentration. Just as the Buddha taught, however, we are already complete. We already have everything we need. The paint roller taught me that I already had the concentration I sought. If I just did the breathing as a task, like painting, I would find it right there waiting for me.

Zen Driving Again

There is an old zen saw that 'you should meditate for a half hour every day, unless you think you're too busy then you should meditate for 2 hours.' Another old saw says 'every little bit counts.' The trouble comes when even the little bits don't happen. The good news is you will soon realize just how good that meditation you are no longer doing is for you.

I've written about road rage before; I had it figured out. My busy life, however, had gotten in the way. Alright, more accurately, I had let my busy life get in the way. The meditation bench that I had built was helping this old body sit still for longer periods and my morning meditation had nearly become a habit. Then a good stretch of overtime at work and habits started to slip. It's hard to remember to get to bed before 8:00 pm. When you're getting up between three and four in the morning, eight o'clock is not really even soon enough.

I don't like to be rushed, so my practice was to get up early enough to have a meditation and cook some breakfast. Of course, I also tend to get involved in too many things. There were meetings, to-do lists, writing and reading. Pretty soon, I was cutting corners at each end of my sleep cycle. I started stretching to nine or nine thirty before I was in bed. When I got up in the morning, it was just in the nick of time to crash through breakfast and out the door. At a certain point, I had lost the morning meditation habit altogether. I still meditated, but not with any regularity.

Then it happened. I turned out on to 36th Ave. to get to Chicago Drive, the main thoroughfare on my, and many other peoples', way to work. There was lots of room between my turning and the guy who was coming down 36th, but I suspect he didn't think so. To add insult to his injury, I dared to come to a complete stop at Chicago Drive to look before turning into 55 mph traffic. When I did turn, the minivan roared around me to pass. It was the perfect moment to smile and let it all go, but this is Michigan where we take cars and driving seriously. I punched my own accelorator to the floor.

With some glee, I noticed the left lane had not yet been plowed. That bum to my left was careening through the icy nastiness still trying to pass me. I kept on him (or her, who knows). For more than a half mile we were neck and neck like some 1950's drag race song, except it was dark and icy and we were just two old poseur dudes on our way to punch the clock at five in the morning.

Somewhere north of ten over the speed limit, the lumpy vomit stain of stupid started to soak into my ass like I had sat on the wrong spot of couch at a frat party. This is not who I want to be. This has not got anything to do with my real life. This is jsut two guys showing off the ravages of anger, greed, and ignorance. What did it matter to me that someone else decided to drive like an idiot? What did it matter that I was childish enough to respond? What difference did it make to the world?

The difference it makes to both of us, and to the world, is karma. Karma is not the proverbial cosmic balance sheet that most Westerners think. Karma is more a momentum where doing good makes good deeds easier. Conversely, doing bad deeds makes more bad deeds more likely. Pretty soon it's a landslide in the wrong direction. This works on the universal level as much as the level of the individual. Our foray into road rage was simultaneously the result of, and a precursor to, more stupidity. That morning, each of us contributed to making more anger, greed and ignorance in the universe.

I'm working at my morning meditation habit again.


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Image taken without permission from Bostinno. 

Sing a Song of Borborygmi

When Buddhism came to Ancient China from India, one of the local motifs that got absorbed was the Hungry Ghost. These ghosts appears into Japanese Buddhist lore as well. The Hungry Ghost is a creature with an enormous stomach but a long skinny neck and a narrow throat, that can never be satisfied. The story was effective because hunger was something that everyone knew. It was a type of suffering so familiar that it could refer all types of suffering by analogy. The trouble is, in the United States, hunger no longer has this same effect.

I am not belittling the hunger we have do have in this country. Hunger can affect 1 in 6 of us(1), but Americans are the world's largest consumers(2) We are 5% of the world's population and consume more than 20% of the world's resources. Setting aside that untenable imbalance, to still have people who are hungry in this country is a moral outrage. Sadly, to most Americans, the problem is the opposite of hunger.

Most Americans barely feel the sensation of hunger. We eat so much, so often, that it is amazing we still have a word for 'hunger.' At the first twinge of hunger – more an emotion than a physical sensation – Americans simply reach for something, anything, to stuff into their mouths. The ubiquity of food, mostly bad, fast food, makes it nearly impossible for most of us to experience actual hunger. Diabetes, heart disease and cancer are simply the logical result of the way we live and eat.

The leading causes of death for Americans are below. At least half of the top ten are diseases of affluence. We are killing ourselves with lifestyle choices. The rest of the world strives to live like us, to be as successful as we are. What a cruel joke we're playing. Not only is it unsustainable for 5% of the population to consume 20+% of the resources, it is unhealthy too. The U.S. is not a shining city on the hill, it's actually a brand new nursing facility up there for treating our diabetes, heart disease and cancer. We are killing ourselves, convinced we're happy, while the emaciated faces of the developing world watch.

When I started to change my diet in the last month or so, there were times before I got used to the new routine that I felt hungry. No pain or serious hunger, but a pull. Though it felt like an outside force, it was all me. Suddenly I had only thoughts of food, any food, that I could stuff in my face. Luckily, I had new rules. I couldn't eat just anything. That is when I decided that feeling hungry was a good thing. I am not starving. Never in my life have I been skinny or even looked hungry. I decided to be proud of feeling hungry. I was managing to consume less of the world's precious resources all while making myself a bit healthier.

There were nights I counted the fast food franchises as I drove home from work, fighting the steering wheel to keep from turning in. My stomach was growling, nagging at me, but I drove on. There is nearly nothing I can eat at a fast food joint anymore anyhow. Once I got home, I had to keep myself from emptying the pantry. It is possible to eat too much even of the good stuff. Nevertheless, not only was I proud of the new way I was eating, I was proud to feel a little hungry. It wasn't, however, real hunger.

Americans eat almost twice the protein they need. Not only do we eat way more food than we need, Americans throw out 200,000 tons of edible food EVERY DAY.(3) It is in our interest to change our consumption habits. This is not a political statement. It is, first and foremost, about our health. But secondly, if the developing world catches up to our level of mindless consumption how are we going to get to 500% of the resources. Of course, we can only ever have 100% of the planetary resource pie to go around. Nevertheless, when the other 95% of the world starts getting their 20%, we will need the 500%. That's several more planets than we have. How's that going to work?

So far, I have left alone the entire fairness argument. Is it fair, just because we managed be one of the first to the first world, that we have so much while others do not. Can you blame some in the third world who view us with disdain? Historically, Americans are great champions of fairness. How did we miss this one? Could we ever reach the point where we are willing to decrease our lifestyle in order to spread the wealth, and the peace(!) around the world? Imagine if we helped countries develop and compete economically rather than dropping bombs on them. Would we have less enemies in the Middle East? Undoubtedly.

30,000 people died from hunger in the world today. 30,000 more will die tomorrow. We Americans will never know the dizziness of real hunger. We won't know the distended bellies, nor the long term health problems if we manage to survive. Most of us will never know the ache of going to bed hungry, not knowing when or where the next meal is likely to come. One simple way to change our attitudes, and effect some change, is to be proud of our stomachs growling. Rather than the plaintive howl of the hungry ghost, sing the song of borborygmi. Go a little longer between snacks. Don't immediately reach for something, but get a little hungry. Drive passed the franchises, get all the way home and cook something healthy – from scratch. Be proud to reduce your consumption just a little. Be that much healthier. Leave some for the rest of the world.

Number of deaths for leading causes of death, U.S.

• Heart disease: 599,413
• Cancer: 567,628
• Chronic lower respiratory diseases: 137,353
• Stroke (cerebrovascular diseases): 128,842
• Accidents (unintentional injuries): 118,021
• Alzheimer's disease: 79,003
• Diabetes: 68,705
• Influenza and Pneumonia: 53,692
• Nephritis, nephrotic syndrome, and nephrosis: 48,935
• Intentional self-harm (suicide): 36,909 link}http://www.cdc.gov/nchs/fastats/lcod.htm(4)
  

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Image lifted from here.

Freedom in Discipline

I've written before about the need to slow down, to breathe, to be there, where you are, just open to this moment. Amazing things can happen on ordinary days when you leave yourself open to that possibility.

Pictured here is my "Four Pepper Stuffed Pepper;" a meal I created for my new vegan path [with Jicama and homemade Salsa Verde on a slice of Mom-grown Cherokee Purple tomato]. I got started watching a fascinating movie called “Forks Over Knives.”  Then, at the end of July, through the Center for Good Health(CfGH), I started working with a Wellness Coach, also the presenter at the seminar where I saw the movie. The coach helped me immensely just by the simple human trick of listening while I committed to this new path, and helping me keep track, in subsequent sessions, if I was actually doing what I set out to do. Alas, for any of you, Coach is soon to be moving on to a new gig. She will be missed. However, I understand she will still do consulting and coaching on the side.

This morning, I had my last coaching meeting of these first three. As we spoke about my progress and how I was going to maintain this new regimen, I offered that it seemed easy. It was just enough discipline to make some choices easier, and other choices just not necessary. At work, I often travel the floors of the hospital. There is the excellent cafeteria, the vending machines and the ubiquitous carry-ins. There is never want for snacky stuff, rich food, pizza, burgers, chips, etc. These temptations don't get to me like they once did. I don't feel tempted to cheat or bend my rules. Whether it's chips and salsa, rice crispy treats, donuts, cake, or whatever, I can walk by without a flinch and think: “Meh, not on my list.” I don't feel deprived, I am just not interested. This little bit of extra discipline has actually made my life easier rather than harder.

I expressed that though veganism is not a religious necessity of my Buddhist practice, it is religiously comfortable. It seems like a more compassionate choice, even a more sharing choice, though I don't proselytize in this way. Coach Sara proposed that this "freedom in discipline" about food choices was rather like Buddhism in general - freedom within the discipline of a practice. BAM! What a surprising, and unexpected, teaching! A rich understanding out of the blue. Right there, 8:30 am, I was blessed with a nutritional supplement for my Buddhism. Talk about food for the . . . um . . . buddha-nature.

If we aren't open to being taught, especially in an unexpected way, or at an unexpected venue, we can never learn.
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Image: mine
Salsa Verde: Mom-made from her own-grown tomatillos and own-grown peppers.
Cherokee Purple: from Mom's burgeoning Little Shop of Horrors super garden. 

Bubba's Pasta Skillet #1

So, you think cooking and eating healthy is time consuming and expensive. Well, I can help a little with time, but that isn't really the point. Healthy is better than quick to begin with. Cooking can be a meditation of sorts. There isn't anything good for you that can be ready in 6 minutes. And the stuff that comes at you through the window of your car is even worse – no matter what you choose. Their oatmeal has twice as many calories as out-of-the-box Quaker Oats. I love to cook. It is completely relaxing and rejuvenating for me. I understand it is probably not this way for everyone, but I'm here to tell you that delicious, healthy food is easier than you think. And cheaper too.

Now there is a wrinkle that I must explain, but I want you to forget it as soon as you finish the next two paragraphs. Recently, I saw a movie called “Forks over Knives.” The movie is about the amazing health benefits of plant-based nutrition, completely plant-based nutrition – vegan. I was most of the way there already, and I've decided to give it a try. My health is good, but I want to see what better results I can muster.

Avoiding meat is also comfortable as a Buddhist. I have yet to make a conscious decision about my practice and meat, but ever since I began to take Buddhism more seriously, I have drifted toward the vegetables. A gradual decision like this, based on comfort and unconscious, is a better decision. Further more, not eating meat is very good for Mother Earth. The meat industry is responsible for more greenhouse gases than all the world's transportation industries combined. The amount of water, energy and [duh] grain that goes into a pound of meat is staggering. Switching to vegan is better for the planet than buying a hybrid automobile.

To help me with this change, I signed up for a Wellness Coach through the Center for Good Health in Holland, Mi [full disclosure: the CfGH is a satellite facility of Holland Hospital, my employer]. The CfGH is a great resource in Holland. They offer “a wide variety of childbirth, health & wellness classes, lectures, special events, support groups, personalized services and workshops in addition to fitness classes.” I saw the movie at the center and have taken yoga classes there too. For the next three weeks, I'm doing something close to the Engine 2 Diet – no meat, no dairy, no eggs, no processed foods and very little added oil. It's Day 5 and I feel great already, but on to healthy food the fast and easy way!

Bubba's Pasta Skillet #1, serves two to four.

Ingredients:

2/3 cup of vegetable broth or water or 2 Tablespoons of olive oil for sautéing

Half an onion or so chopped [depending on your taste, anywhere from half to a whole medium onion]

Half a medium zucchini, chopped [I don't like the monsters, half of a 7 or 8” long zucchini, ymmv]

1/3 of a red bell pepper, chopped [bell peppers are a stock item in my kitchen]

2 tsp of minced garlic [stock item too]

½ tsp of Italian Seasoning [because I was lazy, fresh herbs would be better but not as fast]

Two or three stalks of celery, chopped [from the very heart with a few leaves, I had these around too]

A Portabello mushroom cap, diced [stock for me, but often available individually]

Three blanched Roma Tomatoes

Half pound or so of your favorite pasta [increase pasta & veggies for more guests]

a couple pinches of salt in the water

And, crank it up a notch with a hotter pepper, olives, artichoke hearts etc.

I know you're already quaking about the 'fancy' blanched Roma's but bear with me. This is easy peasy, you're going to boil water for pasta anyway. Start by chopping veggies, get your mind of the “blanched Roma tomatoes.” This sauce, because of these blanched tomatoes, will knock you out!

Add the salt and start heating a quart and a half of water in a 3 quart pot. As the water heats, start sautéing the veggies – onions first, then as the onions reach translucent, add the mushroom, followed by the garlic and then the other veggies excepting the Roma Tomatoes. Add your enhancements here too. The skillet should be on Medium Low at this point if you're using broth or water like me or a bit higher if using olive oil.

When the pot water begins to boil, drop in the three Romas. In 3 to 5 minutes, the tomato skin will crack open. Dip the tomatoes out of the water with a slotted spoon and put them in a bowl to cool. Dump your pasta in the pot while the water continues to boil. Follow the pasta package instructions for time, etc.

The tomatoes will never cool fast enough if you're making this for dinner, but I discovered a secret weapon! I put the Romas in a bowl to cool and even put them in the fridge while I worked on the pasta. When I went to use the tomatoes and they were still pretty warm. Too warm to squeeze open in my bare hand. I found a long neglected silicone hot pad in the kitchen. Squeezing the tomatoes in a cloth hot pad would be a mess, but the silicone worked like a charm – and rinsed right off. Squeeze all the meat of the Romas right into the skillet with the other veggies. Turn the skillet down to a half a notch or so above all the way low. Chop the tomato meat up with a wooden spoon or spatula, but pull out the thick stem ends. Mix the well with the rest of the skillet. Discard the stem ends and the skin. Cook for 5 or 10 minutes more. The reason you are doing this is the wonderful richness of the Romas. This sauce will be as good or better than anything you've had in a restaurant. Way better than Fazoli's or Olive Garden, and healthier too.

The pasta should be getting done about now. Remember to keep an eye on the clock and the pasta. I always take a piece out to check how it chews anyway. I used whole wheat penne and whole wheat rotini pasta; half and half. Whole wheat pasta is a great healthy idea, but if you have regular pasta in the pantry - use it up. Mine was done in about 11 minutes, plenty of time to work the tomatoes in. When you are satisfied the pasta is done, drain it in a colander and toss with the vegetables in a skillet. Serve in pasta bowls. 

I cranked up the flavor in my skillet by adding a couple hot banana peppers right out of Mom's garden. I also had a jar of Alcaparrado on hand and added a half cup or so. Alcaparrado is a Spanish mix of Manzanilla Olives, Pimento and Capers. This salty, sour mix was the perfect compliment to the rich tomato and garlic flavors. I actually found my jar on clearance at the grocery store – a culinary bargain hunter's treasure!

I can't give you an exact cost figure on this meal. I had the pasta in the pantry. Most of the veggies, and the minced garlic, I keep around. The olive mix was about three bucks on clearance. I have less than $10 dollars in the whole thing. Further, I made two lunch containers for work after I ate a bowl and a half tonight. With more veggies and an appropriate amount of pasta [¼ pound per person before cooking], this could easily be stretched to feed four to six. A nice green salad, some crusty bread and a bottle of wine would still cost less than $30 dollars. A wonderful, simple meal for you and three of your friends that eats like an extravagance. I made mine completely vegan, but Parmesan or Romano cheese on top would be great. Not vegan? Try tearing up the breast meat of a deli roaster chicken and sprinkle that on top before serving; no more time and add only about five bucks more.

From foggy idea through Google search for blanching to chopping and cooking, and all the way to half eaten was less than an hour. Along the way, I kept a healthy promise to myself, learned the blanching that I saw Anthony Bourdain do on TV years ago and relaxed my way through chopping and cooking. This meal can be quick, but healthy is the point. If you can, saunter your way through the preparation; invite your family or friends into the kitchen to chat while you work. It won't be distracting, it will enrich the meal and your life. Better get two bottles of wine in that case. 

Just Return to Living

The evening had gone pretty well, but as in all stories like this - it gets nice and quiet just before something goes wrong. Late the Friday before, a patient needed a medication that is kept on hand for rare emergencies. The order to resupply wouldn't be received until Monday, but what were the chances that it would be needed again so soon? It was Sunday already, and we thought we'd made it through, when the call came in: new patient, same emergency, same antidote, we didn't have any in-house.

As my pharmacist held down all else, I called nearby hospitals desperately seeking a few vials. I had been on hold so long on the third call, I was about to hang up and move on. The tech came back on the phone and told me that her pharmacist was sure they had some; only they were having trouble finding it. It was just enough hope to hold on. I gave my pharmacist a tentative thumb's up.

Finally, she came back again, they had found some. I should have asked her exactly what they thought they had found [more later]. We sent a taxi in to the other hospital and waited for the meds to arrive. Our patient's vital signs were good. We were all holding our breath.

Forty five minutes later, the nurse called.

"I think we got the wrong med," she reported.

The panic is much worse after you've enjoyed the relief of thinking you had solved the problem.

"Get up there and find out what's going on!"

I ran out of the pharmacy and down the hall to the back elevator. My mind raced as I punched at the "up" button. With creaks and moans, rattles and clunks, the elevator took its own sweet time sauntering down the one floor from Main. With a final clunk, the doors began to open. I turned my shoulders, squeezed through the opening doors and began punching at another lighted button. The doors slowly creaked shut. I hoped our patient was still OK.

The elevator swayed and groaned as it carried me up from the basement. I strained against the increased gravity and willed the elevator to rise more quickly. It settled softly, shifted, and the doors creaked apart. Before I could run for the end of the ICU corridor, I was blocked by a big box.

There was a crowd of people in the small landing area. This was an isolated employee hallway where I rarely saw other employees, let alone a crowd - two hospital employees, a big box and five or six others - in street clothes. They were in my way, looking back at me, agape. Couldn't they tell I was in a hurry?!?

It was only a fraction of a second, and I can't imagine what kind of expression washed over my face as I realized the big box . . . was a casket. The two hospital people were pushing the casket down to the morgue. The crowd was family. A woman, surely the widow, leaned at the arm of someone while stiff, silent pain clung to her features. She stared, unbelieving, at the other end of the casket.

I attempted to give them a compassionate smile and held the elevator doors. It was right there - impermanence.  It struck me that rushing blindly through life is the bane of human existence. There are so many other things more important than being busy. Most important of all that nothing is permanent. Rushing along thinking that everything will stay the same prevents you from understanding how precious this is right here. It's precious exactly because it won't, it doesn't, it can't possibly last. That's not a bad thing, its just life.

Not comprehending this impermanence is the specific reason so many people are miserable. When I count on things staying the same and build my happiness - or what I think is happiness - on what I wish will stay the same, I can never be truly satisfied. Nothing stays the same. Flowers die, people change, things are not as they appear. This is precious. Savor moments. Don't worry over what you think should be, enjoy what is; deal with what is. 

The rest of the evening went fine, but I don't remember, nor do I care. The medication was, in fact, wrong the first time. We got the right stuff on a second taxi run. The original patient was fine. All those details run together and wash out like sidewalk chalk after a rain. I'm certainly not minimizing the plight of that first patient. And doing the job is, of course, important; paramount even. But living on the edge of frantic without an appreciation for being here - actually being here - is the dark side of the moon. It is not living. It is the dusty, hollow existence of only doing, not actually being.

There's an old zen saying "you should sit in meditation for 20 minutes a day, unless you're too busy; then you should sit for an hour." I had fallen helplessly into the trap. With two part time jobs and an old sailboat I'm resurrecting, I was usually headed in two directions at once. My practice had slipped. 


It started insidiously one morning when I was running behind. I had worked late at one job and had to be in early to the other. "I'll sit tonight" or "I'll sit tomorrow" or "I just won't worry about it for one morning" turned into two days, then three, then a week. After a time, it wasn't that it was hard to remember the last time, I wasn't even realizing that I'd fallen off the wagon; off the cushion as it were.


Luckily, the seeds of intention had been planted. It only took a few weeks of completely abdicating my practice for it to reach back for me. I didn't feel grounded. I didn't feel balanced. I wasn't moving, let alone moving in the right direction. I wasn't being. The same practice that beckoned me back is actually just returning to the breath.

We're told whatever happens in meditation, just return to the breath. If your thoughts have run wild and you're a million miles away, just return to your breath. If you're making lists or decisions, just return to your breath. If your eyebrow itches so badly, it's either scream out loud or scratch it, just scratch and return to your breath. If you haven't been sitting, just sit down and return to your breath. If you think that you will never get any of this stuff right, forget all that, just sit and return to your breath. If you think you're way too busy, shut up, sit down and return to your breath. It works for life too - no matter what happens, just return to living.


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Picture NOT stolen off the interwebs, but actually taken by me, in Sunim's backyard and run through GIMP's Oilify filter.