Okay, the 64 cent question---so why am I doing this?

Well, I find that if I look long enough and deep enough into my motivations, then the answer is almost always "(F) all of the above". By this I mean that I usually find that there are multiple reasons for the things I do, often many layers deep and sometimes contradictory, from the more overt conscious motivations to the deeper less-obvious influences and manipulations of my unconscious mind. I will try to touch on the ones I am aware of. (Please feel free to suggest others that you think I may have missed.)

First and foremost, I feel that this walkabout is an endeavor to address these deep-rooted primal survival fears and hungers themselves. After many years attempting to destroy, conquer, or escape them, I have come to believe that the healthiest approach for me is to embrace them. Ironically, this often helps loosen their grip over me. So yes, this is an effort to liberate myself from the limitations of my ego, the hungers and fears that control me.

I also see this as an attempt to cultivate inner peace and happiness, as well as other qualities such as gratitude, humility, unconditional love for others and myself, and trust in this gorgeous planet and all of its divinely mundane aspects.

It is a practice in simplifying my life. The sweeping and cleaning themselves are a meditation, often regarding impermanence since the trash will always come back, sometimes the very same day. It is also a practice of karma yoga, a practice of service. (Yes, I embrace my dualistic delusion that streets and parks are more beautiful without the trash.)

Despite being an attempt to unravel the ego itself, I realize that I am motivated by these very egoistic impulses themselves. By taking on robes, I become " a spiritual person", garnering me a certain kind of attention that my ego feeds on. And this is yet another adventure, another bauble to shine on my coat of self-image to make me feel special, and therefore worthy. Maybe there is a part of me that is hoping this will be my 15 minutes of fame.

Besides being a psychological experiment, this is also a social experiment. I am curious to see how people react to me and if I can survive on others' kindness and generosity. (Though I believe that we all already do.)

And hey, I was down to my last few bucks anyways, so why not? And this way I don't have to eat my own bad cooking either.

And it is letting go of all of these goals. Or, perhaps, these are all the same thing...

"Hey Zum, you stay a fool! Cuz what's a fool? A fool knows, but he doesn't tell anyone he knows. So you can't fool a fool!"
---Andrell ("World"), six-pack sermonizing and dishing out some koans

So can I really call myself a monk?

Well, I look like a monk and I tend to quack like a monk, but even though I studied Buddhism at a monastery in Thailand for almost a year, I was never fully ordained. And do I even consider myself a Buddhist? I have also studied yoga (particularly jnana yoga), Taoism, and a smattering of Sufism and Christian mysticism. I have learned to honor all of the mystical traditions at the core of all the great religions. (And I’m sure the pagans have all got something groovy going on too.)

However, of all of them, perhaps the only ones that might sanction this kind of walkabout would be the happy-go-lucky Taoist philosophers. Some other traditions do have similar practices of wandering about in the world---including my original Theravada Buddhist order---but usually only after initiation, years of training, and the authorization of a teacher.

And what vows have I taken on? Besides precepts of poverty and homelessness, I haven’t even decided yet if I will take on further limitations to my activities (besides the obvious ones of not lying, stealing, killing, etc.). Probably celibacy. And yet, while I respect the practice and goals of renunciation, I tend to favor the more affirming practices that endeavor to embrace the world in all of its glory and pain, the light and the dark, the delicious yin and yang of it all. Which brings me back to the Taoists again.

(Actually, renunciation and affirmation are not quite so different as they might first appear to be. For letting go of what I want is virtually the same as embracing what I don’t want. Craving and aversion are two sides of the same coin: when I want something, I don’t want its opposite.)

So I consider myself to be mostly a Taoist, for they are fully of the world, enjoying its fruits and blessings, as well as embracing the inevitable slings and arrows…and, perhaps, attempting to realize that maybe these things aren’t so different after all.

For the most part though, most people I encounter tend to think that I’m some kind of kung fu fighter or just some homeless nutcase.

Well, at least I'm clear with myself that I'm not into kung fu.



“I’m gonna walk the earth...you know, like Kane in ‘Kung Fu’”.
---Jules (Samuel L. Jackson) in “Pulp Fiction”

"So you decided to be a bum?"
---Vincent (John Travolta), responding to Jules

“Did you say you’re a monk or a monkey?”
---a nice Christian woman serving us homeless folks a meal.
(My response: “Actually, I’m a little of both.” But she didn’t take the Darwinian bait.)

I don’t pretend that my experience is anything like the rest of the homeless folks here on the streets of Poughkeepsie. After all, I chose to be here and I can leave at any time. I am not trying to replicate their experience---I am just doing something different.

These unfortunate people have had their lives hit rock bottom for all sorts of reasons---sometimes because of their own mistakes, sometimes because of unlucky circumstances, and often because of both. Some of them have mental and/or physical disabilities while others are addicted to alcohol, crack cocaine, or heroin. And almost everybody smokes.

One stressed-out shelter manager admitted to me that the program was designed so that the homeless would not be comfortable and would therefore be motivated to improve their lives and not be dependent on the shelter. To this end, the TV was removed (which I can sort of understand, even though the only time one could watch it would be during the brief meals since we arrive at 9:15pm and leave at 6:30am); hot meals (with vegetables) were changed to sandwiches (usually bologna) with potato chips and cookies (occasionally some fruit if we’re lucky); and the wake-up time was moved to 5:30am.

Now don’t get me wrong, I personally am very thankful for the shelter and the food, but I doubt very much that unhealthy food and lack of sleep are going to help these homeless folks improve their lives in the long run.

Obviously, life on the streets is pretty rough. They are preyed upon by others: one poor guy unwisely opted to have all of his monthly disability and assistance benefits made into $600 cash and was promptly robbed and beat up, sending him to the hospital. And they sometimes prey upon one another: a man and a woman got into a fight at The Living Room when she accused him of stealing $100. My friend Chris had her cell phone and medications stolen and others have experienced numerous petty thefts.

Last week, Ronnie and Jonnie, a married couple addicted to heroin, were arrested for trying to steal clothes from the TJ Maxx store. Meanwhile, gentle Michael is trying to get into rehab to kick his heroin addiction, but the Catch 22 is that you have to prove a prior history of treatment because non-heroin addicts try to get into the program to abuse the methadone!

And there are others who are also attempting to genuinely improve their lives. I often hear the guys discussing job leads. Mike just got a job at a bookstore and hopes to be off the streets when he’s earned enough to pay first and last months’ rent and the deposit. Freebird Calvin got a job cleaning up a barber shop and has moved into his own place. Maurice finally had some money come in and caught a bus to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Boisterous, combative Chris was rescued by her friend. And Everald reads his bible every day, waiting for salvation.

Yet, as always, the future remains especially cloudy for these folks. Two weeks ago, Joe’s daughter was accidentally killed in a drive-by shooting. What can I say after that?

 
One evening in the park, a woman in a neck brace and walking a dachshund approached me while I was meditating. Her name is Sukran and she is a Turkish-born artist who has spent much time in New York City and now owns an art gallery called "Cabaret Voltaire". She feels a bit marooned out here in Poughkeepsie, especially after two car accidents have impaired her day-to-day functioning. We talked for a while and her first take on me was that my new lifestyle is some sort of performance art, which, I have to admit, is a very valid possibility.

Because she has some difficulty driving, I offered to drive her to her doctor's appointment the next day up in Kingston. Discussing the arrangements, she generously offered to let me stay in the extra room of an apartment that she is renting out to a student of the Culinary Institute of America. So now I am living in a wonderful apartment in downtown Poughkeepsie right on Main Street---quite an upscale jump from the homeless shelter. I occasionally do chores and errands for Sukran, especially when she is not feeling well from her neck and back injuries. And I continue to clean the streets.

I keep hoping that my gourmet roommate will cook some delicious meal, but even though we've been living together for over a week now, we have never actually met! Apparently, he also has an evening job, so he doesn't get home until 1 or 2am. Since I'm usually up and out by 8:30am our paths have yet to cross.

Sukran's husband Fuat, an anthropology professor, comes from Manhattan on the weekends and they often fix me delicious meals and have even taken me out to a Chinese buffet a couple of times. We also engage in some stimulating discussions on philosophy, religion, science, politics, etc. and usually finish the evening off with a movie on one of their 3 million cable channels. Sukran and Fuat are celebrating the beginning of their divorce process. They feel that they will be better friends than partners. Both of them have been so incredibly generous to me.

One morning my chess buddy Iraj took me back to his house to help him move a lot of furniture---upstairs to downstairs and downstairs to upstairs. We took breaks by playing chess and he fixed me two large tasty meals. We finished sometime around midnight.

Another day he brought me over to dig about twenty holes in his backyard for planting various trees, bushes, and plants. He's quite a bit older than me, so I did all of the digging. Unfortunately, I forgot my work gloves and he didn't have any. By the third hole I was already getting blisters, so he gave me some square oven mitts that actually worked pretty well.

A more cynical part of me kept grumbling to the rest of me that Iraj was exploiting a very cheap source of labor, but then I remembered that part of my practice is all about service. And hey, the meals were very delicious. Ice cream even. Again, we took breaks to rest and play chess and we finished about midnight.

And then Iraj invited me to join him on a cross-country road trip to California when he relocates his family to Sacramento. He would fly his wife and kids out there and we would drive their stuff out in a big truck, towing his car all the way. He even offered to fly me back to the East Coast at his expense. They won't be ready to go for at least several months yet, so I've got a lot of time to think about it. And, of course, I have no idea where I'll even be in a few months.

The other day I caught myself laughing at a young inline skater with his jeans pulled way down exposing his underwear in the current young urban style. Then I remembered how goofy I look.

"This Buddha was so selfish! Just sitting there doing nothing and everybody giving him food!"
---Sukran

"If my mother was still alive, she'd be dead by now."
---Fuat's unintentional koan

I'm not sure how to write this. Start with the facts, I suppose.

One of the homeless women was murdered last week. Her body was found in the parking lot of a Rite-Aid store. Her name was Terry and she was 45 years old.

The newspaper said that she was a prostitute and a drug addict, but I knew her as an incredibly sweet woman. When she came to the Living Room she would often hug others and ask them how they were doing. This is especially noteworthy when considering the fact that most of the homeless here relate to one another with a tough shell of cold indifference, so displays of affection are few and far between. She truly brightened the room when she walked in the door.

The mood is that much more bleak now. Gentle Michael is the most visibly shaken and everybody else seems even more numbed than before. The other women must be afraid, especially since another homeless woman named Iris was murdered about a month ago, not far from where Terry was killed, so it looks like there may be a serial killer about.

I am particularly concerned about a woman named Chris (a different Chris from my previous friend) who tends to walk about alone and often talks to herself. A few nights ago I encountered her out by herself. She shared some Oreo cookies with me and I tried to talk to her about safety issues, but I don't know if any of it sank in.

A few days ago, some of us went to Terry's funeral to say our goodbyes.

So what is the lesson here for me? What is my spiritual response to what has happened? How do I embrace the dark as well as the light? How do I "affirm" murder when it makes me sad and numb and bleak? I'm gonna have to shoot from the hip here cuz I don't have much time left on the computer here at the Poughkeepsie library.

Yes, death is inevitable. Murders are also inevitable. Murders are Truth. Wars and murder and injustice have been a natural part of human history (animal and plant history too, for that matter) and I'm sure they will continue to be a part of our reality for quite some time. By resisting these aspects of truth, we give them much emotional power over us, which, ironically, causes the internal and external conflicts we are resisting in the first place. By accepting these darker aspects of truth, we create space for the cultivation of peace and compassion, which serve to dissipate internal and external conflicts.

And I think it's very important to embrace my grief and sadness (and even my resistance) for they are natural and appropriate responses. And embrace the unknown, that I don't know what will happen and may not know how to respond to it. I don't know.

Uh-oh. I'm sermonizing. Ego alert.

I have finally caught up to the present in these blog entries. I've been more than ready to hit the road, and tomorrow Sukran has kindly arranged for a friend to drive me to New York City. To be honest, besides the bleakness of Terry's death, I'm feeling a bit lonely and afraid of the next chapter, the unknown. (not sure when I'll be able to blog again either)

Yet, this is the darkness that I initially set out to dance with. If I'm lucky, I'll be able to embrace it with some measure of grace, and then this slam dance of emotions may transform into a gentle waltz.

Or at least a hoedown.

I was lucky enough to have a soft landing here in the Big Apple. Fuat and I got a ride to New York City with his and Sukran's friend Young, a Korean-born artist. They introduced me to another artist friend, Cigdem (chee-dum), who is also a Turkish expatriate, and she has kindly let me stay with her in Greenwich Village for a few days.


A sweet farewell from Poughkeepsie: The day before I left, some of the young girls who had been serving us homeless the free meal at the Lunch Box program sat down with me, curious about my robes. The girls were from a summer program at Sprout Creek Farm which teaches them farm skills and includes a wonderful element of service at the Lunch Box. We talked for quite a while on a wide range of topics, including mysticism, wwoofing, and the potential end of the world in 2012 when the Mayan calendar ends. (You know, teenage girl stuff.) The next day, just before I left Poughkeepsie, they gave me some cheeses from the farm, some pickled green beans (?), and some sweet notes written by some of the girls. That helped lift my mood from the gloominess surrounding Terry's death.

Another parting shot from Poughkeepsie: Tom, a drinking buddy of "World's", expounded on the "Two Noble Truths of Buddhism: 1. Be happy. 2. Help others be happy." (Actually, there tend to be Four Noble Truths in Buddhism, but I appreciated his take.)

My first full day in New York City I went walking around for a few hours and then began sweeping up a few places. Within an hour someone had stolen my begging bowl! At first I was a bit miffed, but then I thought it was pretty funny and quite an apropos welcome to the Big City. It was a perfect lesson of the oft-quoted Arab proverb: "Trust in Allah, but tie up your camel."

Besides, I figured that anyone desperate enough to steal a beggar's bowl (with obvious begging sign attached: "Food only, please. Thank you.") must need it more than me. And I hope it doesn't bring them bad karma, though I'm not sure whether or not I even believe in karma.

And while it felt like quite an ominous start---I'll really have to keep an eye on my backpack when I leave Cigdem's sanctuary soon---it really wasn't all that bad. After all, I wasn't mugged or beaten up or anything.

That'll probably wait till tomorrow.

 

I'm only allowed a very short time on the internet computers in the NYC libraries, so this will probably be a bit cursory.

Anyhow, after staying with Cigdem in Greenwich Village, I've been bouncing between Young's place in Queens, Fuat's apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, and have only spent one night on the streets so far.

It was a Tuesday evening and I started to prepare for the night near Bowery street, New York's skid row area. There were a few other homeless guys at this small park I chose, but there were a lot of large rats and mice running all over the place, and when they started to come over to check me out, I decided to head somewhere else.

I wandered over to Washington Square Park where there were several groups of people playing music late into the night. One group in particular had a nice crowd singing along, so I hung out with them for a while. The diversity of the crowd was amazing---young punk rockers with obligatory flourescent spiked mohawks, well-heeled yuppie types, elderly couples, all major ethinic groups, skateboarders, dog walkers, and one monk. And this was a Tuesday night. At midnight. And there was a guy wearing camouflage pants doing some kind of macho ninja kicking to the music and another guy screaming incoherently. Late night free public music sure brings out the crazies .....myself included.

I finally set up camp in what I thought was an out-of-the-way spot, until some folks came over and decided to smoke some crack cocaine right next to me. Very loudly. Between them and the mosquitos, I learned another side of the City That Never Sleeps.

And then the cops woke me up at 6am.

Cigdem, Fuat, and Young have been very kind, housing me and feeding me from time to time, and always providing stimulating conversation. Cigdem even offered to have me apartment-sit/cat-sit her place in Greenwich Village when she heads back to Turkey in October! (I'm a bit torn because I'd originally been thinking that I'd be heading south by then.)

Young is a multi-media artist and will have a show at Sukran's art gallery Cabaret Voltaire in about a month. She wants my help with some of the construction and especially during the actual installation. Initially, she even wanted me to be in a performance art piece with her that she will present at the opening. Since it will focus on issues of rebirth and liberation, she felt that the performance would be enhanced by a monk's participation. (Good thing I don't have any vows against performance art.) But apparently Sukran feels that my involvement would not be appropriate, so the matter is closed for the time being.

However, since I am still helping Young with the installation, she has generously given me a 30 day subway pass so that I can get to her place in Queens when she needs my help. And so that she can contact me, she has loaned me a cell phone! Now, being somewhat of a Luddite, I've never had a cell phone my whole life, so the irony has not been lost on me that it wasn't until I became a wandering beggar that I got a cell phone. Of course, this may be the best time to have one. Good thing I don't have any vows against technology.

This past weekend, Young took me up to her previous home town, idyllic Stony Brook on Long Island. We strolled through the beautiful Avalon garden and hung out at West Meadow Beach. Then we went back up to Poughkeepsie to visit with Sukran and Fuat and to discuss Young's art show with them.

Sukran was renting out the gallery space to some young 20-something-year-olds for a private party complete with DJ, disco lights, and fog machine. Sukran set up a projector showing an old Martha Graham dance troupe performance on a large wall in the entryway. This turned out to be a wonderful counter-balance to the hip-hop beats.

We decided to crash the party, so Young and I spent much of the night dancing, usually the only ones on the dance floor. Good thing I don't have any vows against shaking my booty.

Warning: this entry is rated R for language and brief nudity.

I've been living on the streets and a cold front with rain has brought new challenges. The first night I wandered around for a long time in the drizzle, searching for a place to sleep and regretting that I didn't have any warm clothes. (It's August, right?) I finally came across a dry alcove sheltered by some scaffolding. A one-eyed homeless guy named Jimmy was already there, but he offered me the best sleeping spot (most protected from the rain), explaining that he slept during the day and would soon be on his way. He turned out to be quite a loquacious fellow, expounding on music, psychology, and, seeing that I was a monk, religion.

From our spot across the street, we watched life and death pass through the busy emergency entrance of Beth Israel Hospital. A good lesson in relativity: I was much happier to be sleeping outside in the cold and rain, rather than inside the warm and dry hospital.

In the morning I woke up to find Jimmy sleeping in the exposed area at the entrance to our alcove.

The day was cold and blustery and I spent most of it wandering around in a tired daze, sweeping occasionally and visiting the Tibet House to see if they had regular meditation sessions. That evening I crashed out back in Washington Square Park, but the rain soon returned around midnight. I found another spot that was relatively dry next to an apartment building and under an over-hanging balcony. I woke up at 4am to find that the wind had shifted to blow the rain in on me, soaking my blanket and getting my clothes wet.

Some Tibetan monks have a yogic practice called "tummo" in which they learn to generate heat in their bellies and radiate it through the rest of their body. They meditate outside in the snow while blankets dipped in freezing lake water are draped over their bare shoulders and backs. Using their tummo body heat, they dry the blanket. When the blanket is dry, it is replaced by a new freezing wet one.

I scrunched myself into the remaining few square feet of dry space and attempted to generate some internal body heat. And while my effort turned out to be quite feeble, I at least managed to relax into the coldness itself, taking away some of its bite. And I even managed to get some more sleep too.

The next day was another cold, blustery, rainy day and I spent much of it in the library. Someone stole my straw sun hat from the bag storage area! I guess they figured it would help them stay drier in the rain. But bless them, the little thievin' sweethearts, for not taking my compact umbrella that was right next to my hat.

That night I found the perfect sleeping spot with some other homeless folks next to some grating that was venting heat from the subway. Delighted, I immediately fell into a deep sleep.....which lasted about 30 minutes until the police rousted us all out at about midnight. At least my blanket was mostly dried by then.

Last night I didn't even try to find a new spot and headed straight back to my spot under the over-hanging balcony. But it's sort of comical to sneak my way in there because I have to hop over a low fence before heading through some small bushes. The fence is very exposed, so I have to time walking by it and jumping over it when nobody is looking, which ain't so easy in the City That Never Sleeps. There's always a certain amount of foot traffic, even at midnight or 1am.

But this morning I was discovered by the building maintenance crew. They had a good laugh because I've been sleeping right under their boss's window these past few nights.

Today I went to the Holy Apostles Church free lunch program and I saw a grizzled homeless guy with a broom and stand-up dustpan like mine. I was so curious that I tracked him down outside after lunch. He said he cleans up places around the city as a service to God because he doesn't have any other skills to offer. Wow.

On that first cold rainy night with one-eyed Jimmy behind the hospital, another homeless guy named George showed up. He was only wearing a T-shirt and ripped pants, so he was shivering in the wet chill. Then a woman appeared and the two of them began hurling insults at one another. She staggered around, making threatening gestures and yelling incoherently. She wore a dirty shirt and jeans that were barely staying on her. And it was obvious that she wasn't wearing any underwear. Then, with a final "Kiss my ass!", she stormed off. Jimmy yelled after her, "Well let's see it then!" and to their delight she dropped her pants. After they finally stopped laughing, I asked George who she was and he admitted that he didn't know.

About 30 minutes later she came back, this time wearing a black faux fur coat, mini-skirt, and high heels-----obviously a 'lady of the evening'. Her hair was brushed back and she was actually quite beautiful. We were speechless. She walked calmly, almost elegantly, up to George and he shrunk back a little. She lifted up her purse, and, like a trained magician, slowly pulled a jacket out of it. She handed it to George who was still shivering from the cold, then turned and slowly strolled away.

It took us a while before we remembered to close our gaping mouths.

 

"All religions come down to the same thing: 'Fuck you!'"

---Jimmy, waxing theological

I have been visiting various meditation centers around the city. (Gosit.org has been a valuable resource, listing about 20 meditation groups in NYC. The site also lists groups in many other cities around the world, if you're interested.) Most have been Buddhist, ranging from austere zen temples to colorful Tibetan centers to a group that dubs itself the Dharma Punx, consisting of relatively young, often tattooed practitioners. (Their website is very welcoming: "Tattoos not required".)

I also attended an arati ceremony and satsang at the Siddha Yoga Ashram which brought back many sweet memories of practicing in ashrams across India. But I was disappointed to find out that the guru, a woman named Gurumayi Chidvilasananda, has been on retreat for a number of years and no longer attends the events.

I also experienced an event in the Lincoln Center Square called "The Worldwide Tuning Meditation" organized by Pauline Oliveros and her Deep Listening Institute. We were electronically linked to other major cities around the world and all participants chanted/sang various tones, sometimes following what others were emitting, and sometimes creating our own notes. It was all quite interesting, especially when attempting to transcend  individual sounds to merge with the greater harmony (or cacophony!). Unfortunately, the cold weather and threatening skies (this was last week) kept the turn-out low, mitigating the volume and impact of our harmonizing.

Afterwards, the group EHRES (Extreme High Risk Entertainment System), consisting of a cellist, a guy tweaking electronic sound effects, a spoken word performer, and Pauline Oliveros on accordion, played some avant-garde music. I understand the value of experimental art forms that push the envelope of convention, but to be honest, I remain chronically un-hip to most avant-garde music.

Monday night I went to a full moon celebration at the Chapel of Sacred Mirrors, artists Alex and Allyson Greys' psychedelic temple/art gallery. I ran into some staff folks from the Omega Institute, reminding me of the good times I had up there. It's already starting to feel like a lifetime ago...

I got sweaty, sweaty, sweaty dancing to the late night drumming session, then helped clean the place up. I staggered a few blocks over to Hudson River Park and crashed out in some tall grasses. At some point in the middle of the night, I heard the police rousting some other people out, but they somehow missed me. I woke up exhausted and bleary-eyed at dawn for slug meditation-----removing the slimy critters who were joyfully exploring the new wonderlands of my sleeping mat, backpack, begging bowl, broom, and dustpan.


"I snore a lot. It drives the other monks crazy!"
---gleeful zen monk Kusei