Maybe some people aren't assholes . . .

My Buddhist life is starting to come together again. I had let the practice slide, then began to feel I missed it, but struggled to get it back. Out on the road, its hard to maintain anything, but recently, thankfully, I've been able to quietly sustain. It feels like I'm in tune with the world again.

“To study the Buddha Way is to study the self,
To study the self is to forget the self,
To forget the self is to be enlightened by the ten thousand dharmas”

- Master Dogen Zenji

Our teacher at the Grand Rapids Zen Center and BuddhistTemple reminded us in a recent dharma talk, that many people forget Dogen's first “study the self” part and try to jump right to the “forget the self” part without doing the necessary work. With my meditation practice back on track, I'm learning things about myself again. So much nonsense gets cooked up inside the human head; mine especially.

There are very few people in my life that get under my skin. I've always taken some thin comfort in that there were so few people who bothered me. I must be an alright guy; I get along with almost everybody. The first stage of my learning came a couple years ago when somehow I realized that 50% of my issues with these people were my reaction to the situation. A time came that I was going to be stuck spending a weekend with one of those people. Luckily there were to be plenty of other people around. I decided to just let them be and not react, even if I thought they were being an ass. It actually worked and the weekend went more smoothly than expected. I was kind of proud of myself. However, I never did the hard work to think about my half of the issues.

Now it may be that some people really are assholes. I might even be right that you can change your own reaction to that kind of person, but I needed to dig a little deeper. These bothersome people are a small group, but they have occupied an inordinate amount of my time – my brain time. These people are so bad [uh huh …] that I would dream up scenarios about future confrontation. Because I knew what they were going to say [ridiculous] and I wanted to be prepared with my rebuttal [sad, and ridiculous]. I was preparing for battle. Given the right prep work, I would smash them into submission with my powerful words [sad, really damn sad].

Sitting on my cushion and peaking into my life, I've been amazed to find anger. Hey wait, I'm a happy guy, right? A joker. What's up with this? The anger usually showed up around these particular people, but it was coming from somewhere else. It was coming from inside me. I stayed with that, teasing at it like a kid poking at a campfire with a stick – watching it burn down.

My perception of this stuff finally settled to the bottom, like that last big log settling into the embers. The situation presented itself that I was going to see one of those people again. My mind started to build the scenarios and the rebuttals … and then, with a clunk, it was right in front of me. My mind was creating these ridiculous “issues” that would surely lead to difficult situations where I could swing my hammer! [such crap] These situations never actually came up, by the way. I was never right. 

Deep in the cob webs, there was another, totally different issue. This other issue had come up before around this person, likely without malice, but it was something that I didn't want to talk about. It was something that was embarrassing or difficult for me to square. Turns out the issue was mine and mine alone. My pea brain was making lots of smoke to cover this other thing; to keep it hid. I've discovered that nearly all my reactions to similar people in my life have involved something else; something deeper.

It is so good to learn. My brain knows now too, so it doesn't race so easily. I still have work to do, but even if not all the assholes are covered by this new loophole, its really just my work on my issues. Now I don't have to worry about how to react to the other person -- it was me all along.

Plaza Rage

It had been a hell of a week; bitter cold, snow and ice, and a highway job. Add to that I had wrangle an empty trailer to be able to pick up the load that would get me back home. Along the way I had to cut across mountainous Pennsylvania backroads to get there, when all I wanted to do was pull off the road somewhere and have a stiff drink … beside a roaring fire.

After the pick up, I battled my way across Pennsylvania and Ohio and got to Detroit on time to deliver. Detroit was my first city after college and I have a soft spot in my heart for her. My load was recycled metal. Recycling industry facilities are not located in swanky business parks. Scrap dealers and reprocessors are where the rent is cheap and the neighbors scarce. Driving up Van Dyke Avenue – a street that I had once lived on in another Detroit neighborhood – was excruciating. The burned out and abandoned buildings crowd out almost any other potential. I wept for my city and got unloaded in a yard surrounded by 12 foot chain link fence topped with razor wire. 

The next challenge was to drive from Detroit to Zeeland in a stiff crosswind with an empty trailer. I made it across owing to my unique combination of stubborn and stupid. I dropped my trailer as the snow plow guy in the lot tried to find new places to put more snow. After bobtailing to the terminal, sorting and turning in my paperwork, unpacking the big truck and stuffing it into my little truck, I was ready to go home, but I needed to stop at the grocery store on the way.

I approached the intersection of organically shaped plaza streets gingerly as the cab of my Ranger was precariously stuffed. A father and son in a big SUV approached from the opposite direction. Without so much as slowing down, the dad cranked his wheel and turned left right in front of me! I outstretched my arms in the International New Jersey Sign for “WTF!!??!!” The dad just looked at me like he didn't understand. This only stoked my anger. As they made a big curve right across my path, the son looked at me dumbfounded. Through their salt crusted windows I imagined that I could see the spittle about to drool from the kid's ridiculous looking lazy mouth. I had the urge to just ram them. Alone in my truck, I disparaged their family, their politics, their religion, their sisters and mothers. They didn't seem to have any idea how they were making my stupid week worse! In my final triumph, I flipped them the bird just before they disappeared around the corner.

I gave my Ranger some gas. The backend dipped slightly to the right; more a saunter than a spin out. Patiently, and feeling oh-so-superior, I waited for the tires to gain some traction. The plow polished snow gradually gave way and as I moved through the intersection, it hit me – brighter than the blinding afternoon sun blasting off the white on white ice and snow – in order to facilitate traffic exiting the plaza, there.is.no.stop.sign.in.the.opposite.direction. Father and son were flabbergasted simply because they were right and I was wrong. I had lost my way – in many more ways than one. How could I have felt so self righteously violated over 4 more seconds at a stop sign? Who have I become?

I've struggled recently to make time, or take the time to continue my meditation practice out here on the road. After sitting all day, driving a semi and concentrating strongly on my driving, it is hard to convince myself to sit, on purpose, to concentrate some more. Other times, I'm running so hard if feels like I don't have the time. The result is I haven't been sitting.

Rolling slowly through the plaza, I realized – re-learned – that meditation is not just sitting and concentrating. It's not doing time. Meditation is about reflecting on and absorbing the wisdom I have been offered. It is not an escape from life, meditation is practicing how to live. To just do the time is to miss the point. To feel self righteous while driving through a plaza is to miss the point. Rather than worry about how much time I meditate, I just need to sneak a few minutes here and there to reflect on who I want to be. Making a complete ass of myself helped me find my way again.

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.