Lessons

Okay, I've been putting this off long enough already. I said that I'd try to sum up what I learned on my walkabout. And most questions I get involve what lessons I gleaned from my time as a wandering monk.....as long as we also count "What the hell were you thinking?!" (Actually, the most common question has been "What was it like?", to which my mouth and brain usually seize up as a thousand different thoughts and feelings logjam in my frontal lobe. Luckily, the part of my brain that keeps me from drooling usually remains unaffected.)

Some lessons are obvious. Some I've already covered in previous entries and will be somewhat of a rehash here. Others are lessons I've encountered long ago, but have been reinforced during my monkabout. And a few are even brand spanking new from my time on the streets.

As usual, getting this all down here will also help me clarify to myself much of what I experienced, though I still struggle against the writing process itself. (What, me procrastinate?) As you can see, without the urgency and simplicity of my walkabout lifestyle, I have found ample diversions to distract me from this blog.

And I better get to it too, before my notoriously slippery memory loses its grip on events, external and internal. Some of the salient details are already starting to slide into that murky fog that masquerades as my memory. Not surprising really, since much of this past strange year already feels like a surreal dream to me now.

So let's see, what other chestnuts did I forage from this experience, other than the aforementioned earth-shaking revelation that my socks don't need to match? Wow, there are so many lessons-----where do I start? Well, perhaps my fading memory itself is as good a place to start as any.

Lesson #1: All things fade. All things change. All things end. Paradoxically, change is the only real constant-----the only thing that doesn't change. We've all heard the old adage that you can't step into the same river twice. We all see everything changing all around us. Everything is a river. Energy and matter stream through everything, even solid-seeming stuff like rocks and Hummers---the flow is just a little slower with these, so we don't see it so easily. Just come back in a geological blink of an eye and see how that Hummer is doing in a million years.

This fundamental force of Change was a daily lesson for me in my wandering monk lifestyle. The transitory nature of life is so pronounced amongst the homeless. Faces come and go on a daily basis. I never knew when---or if---I would see some of my homeless friends again. I often didn't know when my next meal would be or where I would sleep that night. Each day was a practice in staying open to what the world would throw my way. I bounced from New York to California to Texas to Mexico to Colorado and finally back to California.

And sure, this lesson is pretty much a no-brainer: everything changes, get over it. But as I've said before, for most Buddhist traditions, a deeper understanding of annica ("impermanence") not only gives us insight into the workings of the Universe, but also helps us loosen up the rigidity at the root of so much of our personal strife. The more I accept change and let go of clinging to static expectations, then the more easily I am able to move with the natural ebb and flow of the tides of Time.

And the less I will struggle against Ma Kali, Goddess of Time, and her relentless dance of destruction. Fierce eyes bulging, tongue lolling, numerous arms bristling with pointy, slicey, bashy, bloody implements of havoc, she thunders "Cling to anything and you will suffer! Fight me and you will lose!" Eventually, Kali tramples all. (Including any insights or clarity I may have gained, so I try not to hold them too tightly either.)

But give battle we do. Aging is one of our primary battlefields. Armed with a plethora of colorful drugs and emboldened by battalions from the cosmetics industry, we flail against the passing of the years and our waning youth. We even have some victories: we cure diseases; we extend lifespans; we stave off the signs of aging. But Kali's implacable foot and bloody sword are ever descending. We are still mortal. (Of course, this may all change some day-----after all, everything changes, right?-----especially if we unravel the secret of "programmed cell death" or learn to store matter as data. Then, oh boy, is Kali gonna be pissed!)

In a strange sort of reverse nostalgia, I sometimes catch myself imagining an idealized dotage where I am too old to care about my appearance or self-image in general. I am a wise old man, free of the immense burden of caring what others think of me. When I become aware of this fantasizing, I give myself a few gentle mental smacks and remind myself that I can be free right NOW, right HERE. Even as I write this. I don't have to care how this turns out, what it "looks like". I breathe deep. I relax. But the moment is ever fleeting as my brain and chest soon tighten up as I struggle to hammer out sentences. There isn't much "moving naturally with the ebb and flow of Time". But it is a practice, a process, and perhaps my lesson is to be content with this slow trickle of words and not count on the floodgates opening anytime soon. (Perhaps, laughs the zen master, the smacks were not hard enough!)

This talk of "going with the flow" reminds me of a story told by Chuang-tzu:

One day Confucius and his pupils were walking by a turbulent river. They saw a man dive into the raging torrent up ahead. Thinking that the man sought to kill himself, Confucius sent his students to try and save him. However, when they reached the river's edge, the man was already walking along the riverbank, singing to himself. Astounded, Confucius asked him how he had managed to survive the wild waters. The man answered, "I go under with the currents and come out with the flow. I just go with the Tao of the water and never think of myself."

Again, I feel it is important to reiterate that "going with the flow" does not mean passive submission to whatever comes along. It means finding an appropriately harmonious response to what is before me. This response may be as "simple" as laughing along with the trash-talking chess player who is ridiculing my play as he slices my army to shreds. Or it may be as "difficult" as asking "God" to stop singing so that the other 150 of us at the homeless shelter could get some sleep. And it may be as paradoxical as "going against the flow" of my own programming or social expectations when I am ready to transcend these limitations. After all, the whole gamut of options from Yin to Yang are available for implementation.

But Lao-tzu cautions us to favor the gentler Yin responses, for we are a formidable aspect of Life, already full of strong Yang impulses. (Just look at our impact on the rest of Life on the planet.) In a way, it is a call to empower more of our nurturing feminine energy to counter the more destructive aspects of our male energy. (Madam Kali notwithstanding!) My job is to find the balance, the "center point of the Tao". For to be stuck in any extreme is to lead a life of self-imposed slavery.

(To be continued...)



"Yes, God is everywhere, but we should worship his different forms in appropriate ways. We worship God in the guru by bowing at his feet. We worship God in the hungry child by giving him food. We worship God in the poison by putting it safely away out of reach. We worship God in the thief by arresting him and bringing him to justice."
---Chandra Swami (This is not an exact quote. I am remembering something he said a few years back. Actually, he didn't "say" it because he has been in mauna ("silence") for the past fifty years or so. He responds to questions by writing his answers on a sheet of paper that one of his disciples then reads aloud.)


"It was humbling, educational, weird, sad, exhilarating, scary, maybe even liberating. But mostly it was humorous."
---a typical response when I am finally able to engage my brain and mouth to answer the question "What was it like?"


Happy Holydaze, All!