Yours in the Dharma:  Essays from a Buddhist perspective by Sandy Garson

This blog, Yours in the Dharma by Sandy Garson, is an effort to navigate life between the fast track and the breakdown lane, on the Buddhist path. It tries to use a heritage of precious, ancient teachings to steer clear of today's pain and confusion to clear the path to what's truly happening.

Friday, March 27, 2015

It All Starts in Your Kitchen

On his current American tour, His Holiness the Karmapa has been speaking at the most elite universities and high tech campuses, preaching his gospel of compassion: for each other, for all sentient beings and for the Earth our mother. Most recently, at Harvard, he called out apathy: "The most dangerous thing in the world is apathy... I urge you to feel a love that is courageous --not like a heavy burden, but a joyous acknowledgement of interdependence." 

The great hotbed of apathy is of course the kitchen. Eating comes so naturally, so instinctively, we take it for granted and do it so obliviously, we are actually blind. Yet here is where we can change everything: our health, our attitude, our world, if only we up our awareness and focus on what we are really doing. Because the kitchen is ultimate living proof of interdependence. Carrots came from Afghanistan, potatoes from Peru and ketchup is a Cantonese sauce. What dairy farmer milked which cow to give you that carton of yogurt? Who scooped up the olives that made your oil? Who offloaded it at a U.S. port?

 Just read this past week's headlines if you are clueless. Burmese workers kept as slaves in Indonesia's export fish industry. Mexicans denied even beds and toilets while harvesting all those cheap fruits and vegetables in your supermarket. One fifth of California's dangerously disappearing water supply still going to raise alfalfa to feed beef cattle for your burger. Amy's Kitchen, a supposedly organic processed food purveyor now owned by giant General Mills, recalled thousands of its products fearing listeria has contaminated them. And finally, scientists not on Monsanto's payroll link Roundup to cancer and fertility issues. Earlier an MIT scientist linked it to all the trouble people seem to be having with wheat gluten because the entire industrial US wheat crop is doused with Roundup two weeks before it is harvested, so you're getting a whopping dose of glysophate when you eat commercially baked bread.

Cheap. Convenient. Or Conscious. Compassionate. Everything we eat comes from somewhere starting with soil and solar energy, ending with human hands running on food fuel and combustion engines running on fuel that comes out of the Earth. That's why diet choices can change the world. We vote every time we toss something into our shopping cart or garbage can, every time we pay at the chosen checkout, every time we willingly go to a farmers' market and pay pennies more for honest, fair food, every time we decide to skip the beef and order polenta. Buying out of season imported fruits and fish just because you feel like having peaches in January is support for the most abominable slavery of others. Constantly eating meat supports ripping down the last forests, ripping out the oxygen supply and ripping up the great rivers. 

We change the world every time we choose not to buy these things, to wait for tomatoes and blueberries until they are locally in season, to eat spaghetti with tomato sauce and roasted vegetables instead of steak, to buy in bulk instead of chemically toxic cans, to choose hearty lentil soup and grilled cheese sandwiches over chicken salad. We stop being apathetic and acquiesce to our convenience addiction when we make our own meals instead of letting some mega corporation feed us to its bottom line. It's about waking up to what's going on all around us instead of sleep walking through our meals. We just need to think altering our kitchen habits more worth our time than, say, watching Game of Thrones or calculating charts for March madness or visiting the mall again.

I recently met a middle aged couple trying to meet their daughter's challenge to live trash free. It's not that hard, they said, when you make the effort to think about what you're doing. They buy in bulk or fresh from a farm. They get milk in returnable glass bottles instead of waxed cartons and buy nothing in clamshell packaging. They were quite pleased with this accomplishment. 

Of course I'd like to tell you I've got this down pat; His Holiness would be proud of me. But that's a ha ha, in my dreams. I am so the Kleenex queen that when I die, people are going to find half used tissues in every pocket and purse I own. Still, I have made efforts to change other things. I do not buy imported out of season produce, any imported or farmed fish. I am trying really hard not to generate any garbage from vegetables and fruits. I recycle vinegar and olive oil bottles by using them for homemade salad dressing.

 I came from a family that had to have meat twice a day, but I don't eat much any more.  I didn't go cold turkey. I just stopped eating slabs I have to "butcher at the table", as Asian people say of Americans, and stick to snippets that flavor a dish. I admit it's harder to think up a meal when I can't just "throw a burger on the fire" or eat a roast chicken for three days--and sometimes it's a pain, but thanks to the world's plethora of tasty traditions of vegetarian cooking, I'm somehow managing (pasta e fagioli, anyone?), and according to all the latest tests, my health is perfect.

His Holiness' idea of compassion is no meat eating, littering or environmental degradation. It's awareness over apathy, consciousness of where things come from and where they go and how we direct that traffic because, as he says, everything is interconnected. The kitchen is the best place to understand that.

~Sandy Garson "Wordsmithing to attest how the Dharma saved me from myself!"

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Tuesday, March 17, 2015

The Feng Shui of Food


If you let her, Mother Nature can table train you. She’ll teach you that the wisdom of being in the moment is as vital for your body as it is for your mind. So forget the calorie count and nutrition percentages. Ignore what some diet guru and the Federal Government say every other week, and put down those fruits from Chili and Ecuador. What matters most when you eat or plan a meal is GPS: where you are right now. The food that fuels your body should sync it to your time and place on Earth. Otherwise it gets off kilter, which invites dis-ease.

Tablecloths, TV shows and touts can cover up but cannot change the true meaning of food. Eating is the act of fueling your body to produce energy. Being table trained—or intelligent, means every time you “fill ‘er up”, you calibrate that fuel to produce clean energy: qi or chi that flows through you unimpeded by dams, deluges or deficits.  It’s not rocket science. It’s just acclimation: letting your body “friend” its surroundings by eating local, seasonal foods that match it to the air, water, soil and bacteria that pervade it.

Feng shui, the Chinese science of positioning, literally means wind/water. The motion of those two elements controls all energy on Earth, including what creates the climate and the resulting food supply which controls the qi of human beings. Feng Shui is supposed to create a friction-free intersection of the physical with the invisible all around it, breaking barriers to harmonious energy. Its mantra, location location location, is typically applied to design, but Feng Shui applies to eating habits as well because food is the energy exchange from the outer world to your inner one. Eating is its intersection, which is frictionless when your body blends with its environment by ingesting edibles from it. That’s the secret behind eating local yogurt to protect your gut in foreign lands, and why ingesting farmers’ market food produced by local soil, water and air actually strengthens you.

Like feng shui, Chinese medicine comes from Taoism, particularly its insistence that intuitive wisdom, the invisible voice that prompts us to do the right thing, rises from where we digest things: the stomach. It’s hard to argue against this when you instinctively reach for coffee to wake up and hot chicken soup to fight a cold, when you reflexively counter summer heat by eating lots of cold food and react to the chill of winter by turning on the oven to make slow-cooked, rich and fatty stews.

We just know these things. And Mother Nature is forever clueing us to change our diet as the seasons change. Right now when sunlight has lengthened and the air warmed, she delivers asparagus, dandelion greens, fiddleheads, green garlic, mushrooms, nettles, pea shoots, ramps, rhubarb, and scallions for us to indulge in. These first responders to the reboot of solar power transfer the go-go energy that propels them to burst through thawing soil to you just when you need it most: to spring out of the cold, dark lethargy of winter. That’s why we speak of “spring tonic”, foods that fill our body with sunshine so their force is with us. This is science not poetry: their green color comes from chlorophyll, a medicinal marvel molecule that soaks up, stores then releases solar energy.

When we get too much of it, when summer’s heat bakes the body and sweating dries it up, Earth delivers watery foods: berries, melons, cucumbers and tomatoes to rehydrate the body. But even that cornucopia is not enough. Our sun-roasted joints and muscles need a lube job, so Nature increases enrollment in her schools of oily fish like salmon, bass, bluefish, mackerel and sardines. Don’t you somehow find you prefer fish to roast beef in August?

What’s more, almost every country on the sun-baked Mediterranean beats the searing heat with a tasty repertoire of what Turks call zeytinağlı, "olive oil food": summer vegetables steeped in oil and served hot or cold as a side dish, appetizer, snack, even meal. The best known is probably the Turkish imam bayildi, the eggplant dish famed for that name: “the priest fainted”, because, it’s said, he was overwhelmed by how costly all its olive oil must’ve been. Stuffed grape leaves (dolmades), ratatouille, bean plaki, that oily “salad” of green beans with tomatoes and dill known as fasolakia, even hummus, these are all deliberately intended for summer eating.

The chill of winter requires food that warms the heart. Yearning for heavy meats and their fat that heats the body as it metabolizes, we keep the fire going to slow cook by braising or roasting. We absorb the Earth’s minerals stored in all those root vegetables that grew slowly as they soaked them up. We help others keep their body heat by offering cookies and cakes made with spices known to warm the stomach: cinnamon, ginger, clove.  We indulge in foods that have been fermented, which miraculously adds vitamins they didn’t inherently possess: relishes, pickles, sauerkraut, aged cheeses, and the cacao bean turned into chocolate, the gift of choice to fire up the heart on mid-winter Valentine’s day.

Because historically dis-ease indicates a body alienated from its surround, Ayurvedic, Chinese and Greek medical systems consider time, place and age crucial to accurate diagnosis. Their pharmacy is ordinary food prescribed or prohibited according to yin/yang, “humors” (hot, wet, cold, dry) or body (small/cold, muscular/fiery, big-boned/phlegmatic)—all principles of balance, inside with out. Before the famous part of his oath, “Do No Harm”, Hippocrates said: “I will apply dietetic measures for the benefit of the sick according to my ability and judgment… .”  Mother Nature tries to train us to apply beneficial dietetic measures too, by providing lots of option for local seasonal eating—if only we’d notice.

~Sandy Garson "Wordsmithing to attest how the Dharma saved me from myself!"

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Tuesday, March 03, 2015

Now It Can Be Tolled

(This is an unusual entry for me but I want to spread awareness and raise consciousness. Feel free to share, copy and reprint.)

The removal of human toll collectors from the picturesque Golden Gate Bridge has now provided a stunning view of how dystopia happens. In less than two years, the handover of responsibility for a public necessity from a public authority to the private sector shoved bridge crossers from simple and predictable traffic backups into a nasty, Orwellian world of lawsuits, impounded cars and petty extortion. In 2014 alone, nearly a quarter million drivers had to pay penalties for supposed toll evasion, five times higher than the last year drivers paid a human. Another 16,000 drivers were “accidentally” mailed violation notices with late payment penalties already attached.

Users of the bridge, aka consumers, had no say in the switch from the outstretched hand of human beings to the faceless arm of what now turns out to be Xerox Corporation. The loudly touted reason was the same as it has been for turning over prisons, schools, parks and other public property to the private sector: saving money. Going electronic was going to save the Golden Gate Bridge Authority $1 million a year in employee salaries and benefits—not those of its executives of course, just those who have face time with the public.

The implied message to the public was: at least your tolls won’t rise. Never mentioned was the cost of going electronic: $117.5 million paid to Xerox to operate toll collection, the unspoken cost of demolishing the toll gates, severance packages, and now, it turns out, additional money for a consultant to “help Xerox fix its problems.” No explanation why taxpayers are obliged to fund the incompetence of Xerox. Or why tolls went up another dollar anyway.

The lollapalooza of the deal for Xerox was getting to outsource the real dirty work of toll collection to drivers. People who simply crossed the bridge suddenly became its unpaid workers. We couldn’t just hand over the money and move on. We were now solely responsible for making sure the crossing fee got paid to wherever and whomever it was supposed to go whenever some Orwellian machine spit out the bill, traced our whereabouts and sent it.

DIY toll collection has proved horrifyingly Kafkaesque for visitors, tourists and out of the area residents--anyone without a local transponder. Sometime their whereabouts turn out to be dead wrong, saddling them with penalties for a bill they never got. The third week, I crossed in a rental car, unable to use my transponder because each must be registered to a specific license plate. Driving nonstop through the gate caused a moment of stomach churning bewilderment, but I was just following orders. When I returned the car, I handed the clerk an additional $6 for the toll. She pushed it back, saying: “Oh no. We don’t deal with tolls. That’s your responsibility.”  Well, I thought, twice I was ready to pay. It’s no longer my problem.

What did I know? More than a month later the bill came to Enterprise Rent-a-car. That company then spent its time going through records to identify the renter at that particular moment and sent that info on. By the time I finally got the bill, it had late fees, penalties and threats. Not worth more of my time for a fight; I sighed for le temps perdu and sent a check.

Xerox Corporation counts on padding its bottom line with people like me making these unwarranted petty payments rather than protesting them. Its contract allows collecting fees from every violation, which any idiot can see gives Xerox endless incentive to gin them up. Their highway robbery has already taken such a toll, a local attorney had to file a class action lawsuit. A local news investigator specializing in consumer complaints had more than enough to air a chilling segment in February documenting thousands of drivers who got unwarranted toll evasion notices even before they got the original bill notice. They got huge, ongoing impossible-to-resolve penalties, partly because there is no person to resolve them, and partly because Xerox profits by letting penalties pile on.

The poster child of the TV segment had spent 16 months, sometimes as long as an hour at a time on phone hold, trying to clear accumulating charges for a one time trip from the north bay to the south bay, $6. He could not afford to give up his fight because it turns out that Xerox reports toll evasion to California’s DMV, and the state does not question this private company. Nor does it not allow any citizen to re-register a car unless all “fines” are fully paid.

Despite the fact that he actually paid was acknowledged, no telephone clerk at the private company claimed the “power” to expunge his public record of its mounting penalties. After 16 months, someone did dismiss the false penalties-- except the charges mysteriously re-appeared the following year on his DMV file, forcing him to launch a whole new fight to clear his name again. Fairness, hearing, due process have all gone the way of human toll collectors. And the DMV has become a revenue agent for Xerox.

We are stuck with no escape from this nightmare. Those of us who lack the swimming skills of a Navy Seal do not consider crossing the Golden Gate Bridge optional or a lifestyle choice, even some kind of take or leave it offer like the Triboro Bridge for which there are alternatives at 59th St and 34th St. As the only direct public highway over the huge bay that cuts into this section of the California coast, it is painstakingly hard to avoid. The Golden Gate Bridge is a public utility.

For that reason, frequent commuters who cross with a transponder thought the organization whose name is emblazoned on it, FasTrak, was public. After all, it is the only option. The TV Investigation revealed seemingly public FasTrak is private capital corporation Xerox. Whichever so called public servant made the decision to do away with human toll collectors evidently has since been so embarrassed, particularly by those 16,000 “accidental” violation notices, the Bridge Authority fined FasTrak $330,000 for failing to provide any semblance of customer service. That, the TV reporter said, “merely scratches the surface of what we’ve uncovered.”

I got one of those notices. Twice I had to wait on hold 20 minutes to find out why, since my car is equipped with a working transponder, I suddenly got a toll evasion notice for one out of several bridge crossings within two weeks. FasTrak had no explanation or apology for how that or the double 20-minute hold time could’ve happened.That's 40 minutes of my time totally wasted.

These revelations have filled me with a chilling, nightmarish dread about a DIY $4.30 toll for a very short stretch of highway connecting freeways in the Denver area. There, flashing signs warn of a toll but tell you to keep driving: your license plate is somehow being photographed. It was spooky and it turned out to be scary. About six weeks after taking that short stretch of road, I got a bill, its due date past. I paid the day it arrived. Two weeks later I got another bill with extended late fees and evasion penalties. The following week I saw my toll payment check had been cashed. A month later I got yet another ominous toll evasion notice with even higher penalties. I sent back a copy of the cashed check with its tracing number…

What’s most shocking about all this is how quickly the handover of the Golden Gate Bridge brought what some call Republican dystopia to a most Democratic place. And how the abuse has been ignored although it has been, as the TV reporter said, “staggering.” People who feel smugly elite enough to think themselves insulated from well-publicized depredations and indecency in privately run prisons, schools, parks and student loan programs can no longer avoid them if they need to drive on America’s highways or bridges. “To save money”, more and more have been turned over to the vaunted faceless private sector. Yet nobody has asked the obvious questions: who exactly is saving money? What is the toll?

P.S. Last night, in March, TV news showed pictures of cars, trailers and trucks being smashed —32 in a year—trying to keep up the nonstop pace going through those old booths for tolls.

PPS: Yet another penalty bill has come again for that Denver road for the toll I already paid. $4.00 that just won't quit.  

~Sandy Garson "Wordsmithing to attest how the Dharma saved me from myself!"

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Wednesday, February 25, 2015

You Have to Start Somewhere

 Last Friday was Losar. That kept me very busy. Tibetan New Year requires heavy cleaning: your house, your shrine, your body, your clothes and your mind. You don't want to dirty the freshness of a new year--at least not right away. 

The days leading up to Friday required lots of loud drum banging and praying to the remover of obstacles to banish leftover negativity lest it infect the bright, shiny year ahead. On the eve, I had to take down my entire shrine: change the seven rice bowl offerings, polish up the glowing statues (I squeezed lemon juice on them to get a sheen), dust photos and thangkas, and change brocades. I piled fruits and a cookie for sweetness. When I saw a glow radiate from my effort, I felt the jubilation of accomplishment. 

A huge tide of joyful wishes flooded my wi-fi. From around the globe, the year of the wood sheep rolled in on Facebook, WeChat, text message, telephone and email. Everybody's reaching out beyond arm's length felt like a huge embrace. In its warmth, I busily beamed around the world best wishes for a happy new year. Germany...Mongolia...Nepal...Canada...for a moment, the planet seemed to be a cozy neighborhood.

Friday was also Tet for the Vietnamese and the nominal Chinese lunar New Year that technically started about ten days before. It will be officially celebrated two weeks later with a glamorous parade staged by San Francisco's enormous Chinese community. Friday was for showing the love in stuffed red envelopes, red fruits piled on the shrine, and wearing something new that's red, color of good luck. It was the time for bananas--color of gold, those impossibly long clear noodles--symbols of long life or at least enough for the new year, and celebrating fish by ingesting their energy (i.e. eating some) because they only move forward. Those who retain traditional Buddhist devotion purify themselves by eating a decidedly vegetarian meal, to show their care for life. It's also a way of asking for more life themselves.

The rest of the world went on like none of this hullabaloo was happening. School, stock trades, mail--it was not a holiday. The Jews celebrate their New Year in autumn on a date that varies with the harvest moon. Roman Catholics and their Protestant cousins claim New Year in midwinter, always on the same day: January 1--  a relatively recent designation by the way. Ancient Greeks began their new year with the first new moon after the summer solstice, June 21. Before Julius Caesar, Romans started their year March 1, then during the Middle Ages most European countries acted like the year began on March 25, day of the Feast of the Annunciation. 

No one really knows where a year begins. Bengalis have a New Year different from the rest of Hindu India which uses the spring equinox as start. Persians use that day too. Nowraz always falls on March 21. Everyone eats sprouts. Thais celebrate Songkran mid April as a water festival that purifies, washing away the dirt of the old. Nepalis, Punjabis and the Assamese celebrate mid April as well.  Sometimes Tibetan New Year and Chinese New Year are weeks apart; sometimes Tibetans have two designated days, one known as Tsurphu Losar, designated by the monastery of His Holiness Karmapa. It's a mess.

 When you think about it, you realize we all mark several beginnings of a year: a school year that starts in September, a government fiscal year that can begin in July, a calendar year that begins in January. Jewish New Year Rosh Hashonah actually falls on the first day of the seventh calendar month because the calendar count itself begins on the first new moon of spring.  Yet years are tabulated from it. The dichotomy is said to be the compromise of early rabbis unable to unanimously agree on the most appropriate moment: when life sprang up anew or after the harvest when life was laid to rest, opening time for reflection and planning for the new.

You can see we just make this stuff up. There is no real New Year. We may cling to a calendar as very solid and secure-- so dependable, we can count on it, but a year is just a man-made invention. Just a thought. Like us, the ancients saw day folding into night, then breaking out again. They saw bodies born, change and disintegrate. Looking for something dependable as an anchor, they counted sunrises. Some measured by counting the changes of the moon. Others trusted to the varying angles of the sun. With everything seemingly circular, nobody found an absolute.  Where to begin counting in the circle is one issue on which everyone agrees to disagree-- so politely no one gets hurt!

New Year is a perfect example of what the Buddha meant by the impermanence and insubstantiality of everything, most of all our thoughts. Depending on your perspective, this is the year of the goat or the sheep or the ram. It is 2015 or 5775 or 4713. Does it matter? When you find yourself celebrating January 1 and February 19 and in late September and July 1 when your property tax year starts, you see how vested we are in a virtual reality, living in the realm of imagination.

As it happens, Losar is a time for trying to foresee reality with a little fortune telling. Asian calculations combine 12 earthly beings with 5 heavenly elements to create a 60 year life cycle.  So I looked up the prognosis for the year of a wood sheep. It is calm, cool and collected. Time to catch our breath from the galloping pace of events that came with the year of the horse. Time for courtesy and charity and community. Somebody who was as tuned into vibes from the real world as we are to Twitter feeds realized that what animates and energizes us ebbs after it flows. The Chinese system attempts to translate how the invisible affects us: the full speed ahead charge of the horse followed by low battery small focus of the lamb, which gives rise to the brazen creativity of the monkey...

I have grown more fond of Asia's New Year than of other ones. The timing just feels a lot more significant to the bones and heart than that ball falling through the snow in Times Square on New Year's Eve and all the other trumped up drunken revelry of Saturnalia. Winter's grip seems to be loosening right now: light lasts longer, leaves are trying to peek out. There is a letting go. Life is starting to feel brighter, new possibilities popping up like bulbs. Spring is always an official, new beginning, a second chance. I find the peace of inner balance comes from being in sync with reality like that. And the peace of inner balance makes one very happy for a new year.

~Sandy Garson "Wordsmithing to attest how the Dharma saved me from myself!"

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Thursday, February 19, 2015

Truth Will Out

I have started referring to every new year of age as a new place I've never been before. As a tourist learning my way around, I have no idea what to expect, no inkling whether what's happening is normal or peculiarly me. And by the time I figure it out, I'll have crossed the border into an entirely new place. We are all nomads crossing through life.

Last month I passed a milestone into the home stretch. In this uncharted territory where I am now tenting, I am seeing everything distorted by the wide angle perspective of experience, aka age. It's quite the fun house view. complete with the realization that I'm going to step outside soon. So what the hell. I laugh a lot more at life's ironies and peoples foibles, especially my own. It's hilarious how I've been trying to kid myself all these years with the same habitual come-ons and cons. 

The world has been trying to kid me too, the man made world that is. But I am beginning to get wise enough to see through the cons and come-ons and comedy. The real world underneath is getting clearer  so I'm seeing things differently.

Finally, a major miracle: my thighs look thinner. Alas, it's because my waist has disappeared. 

Uncle! I give up. I can't change the world. It is even messier and nastier than it was in my youth--maybe even more so and without those shoulder pads sewn into everything. But I could change myself.  And  that did change the world around me-- into a more accommodating space. The world around me actually became peaceful only after I did.

Adjectives--like better and worse, good and bad, even up and down--are really judgment calls. Who am I to judge? What was horrific for the people of Tibet has been splendid for me; when the country was cracked open, I got their well hidden Dharma.  From it I learned, if I put my pinkie and ring finger up, I'm going to swear the ring finger is "big". But when I  put up my middle finger, I have to admit it's now small. I can't even be sure of a word like "green." Everyone sees color so differently, look how many colors we use just to describe ocean water: the Red Sea, the Black Sea, the White Sea, the brown Sargasso Sea, emerald waters, blue lagoon... .  Last week I bought a cotton tunic whose stripes I thought were varying shades of gray but in the bright light of my apartment window, I discovered those stripes were shades of blue. When I tell someone the restaurant was good, I am making a judgment call, not speaking truth.  Adjectives will get you if you don't watch out.

You may lose your mother but if you kept your first friends, those who liked you before there was any ulterior motive, you'll still have the feeling of being nurtured, guided, bonded and loved. Shared history makes family.

We all live in time zones not on the map. When I see the cost of medical treatment, theater tickets and restaurant meals these days, I feel like I've crossed a border into a zone my internal mechanism is not set for. I remember my grandmother screaming at me for being profligate when I told her a can of tuna cost me 27 cents; in her mind it was still .15. Now it's more than $2. I think we all get stuck in the values, culture and prices of our formative years, which become the time zone we continue operate in. I now feel  jet lagged crossing so frequently from one zone to another. I want my warm, cozy familiarity back.

Sacre bleu! Charles deGaulle was right: cemeteries are full of supposedly irreplaceable people.  By now, even those who were away on Mars and missed Celine Dion's song know the world does go on. It will without me too. 

At least, I understand the only way I can live on when my body dies is to be missed enough to become an attractive example of how to live in this world, a memory so fond someone fiercely guards it in their heart and brings the example to life. I didn't invent this idea. It's actually in the ancient Kaddish prayer: "The good live on in the acts of goodness they perform and the hearts of those who hold them dear."  

If somebody misses me enough to cry, that will be the real tribute, the award for my performance in this world.

I would like my epitaph to say: Here lies Sandy who never lied before.

Printing may be passé but imprinting is still huge. In so many hidden ways, we do become our mothers or our fathers, or else we marry them to keep the familiarity going.

Science has now confirmed that human beings require a lot of touching. Not touchiness. Just plain old hands on touching. Most people are starving. It's really funny to watch everyone thinking they're gonna be hugged by titles, awards, corner offices, nanosecond trades, lucrative contracts and twitter feeds. So much for the value of virtual reality.

Most little kids want to grow up to be firemen or fairy princesses. Why some kids dream of growing up to be total jerks beats me, but that is definitely what many do become.

Someone recently went viral saying there are no grownups. Yes there are. There are people who understand the entire world does not revolve around them, or end at the tips of their fingers and toes. There are people who can acknowledge their behavior affects others, that when someone doesn't respond the way you prefer, your own behavior may have something to do with that. In other words, adults are people who control their behavior because they realize it has consequences. In the inimitable worlds of the late Trungpa Rinpoche, they are mentally toilet trained.

Whoever said people don't want truth, they just want to be re-assured what they think is true was absolutely right. We all live inside a tent of our own thoughts. Our minds and actions get shaped by the beliefs we choose to grab and hang onto as we surf the waves of life. Truth is a cluster bomb that blows up our cozy home and the surfboard we store there, forcing us to flee as a displaced person into the lonely unfamiliar. You can see why most people don't want to go there.

Everybody is supposedly hunting for the meaning of life. It's the quest of quests: what is the meaning of life? Well, I have no idea...except maybe this new suspicion: taking some of that mean out of it.

~Sandy Garson "Wordsmithing to attest how the Dharma saved me from myself!"

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Yours In The Dharma 2001-2010, Sandy Garson Copyright 2001-2010 Sandy Garson All rights Reserved

Monday, February 02, 2015

Driving Under the Influence

 A while back, in answer to an audience question, His Holiness the Dalai Lama solved one of the greater mysteries of our times: road rage. Asked why even perfectly patient, generous, compassionate Buddhist practitioners are apt to go ballistic behind the wheel, His Holiness said traffic messes with our most primal instinct: pacing. Our sense of pace, tightly tied to our primal sense of space, is the mark of our evolution to two legged walking, upright running, flight or fight responders. It is is lodged in our limbic brain, embedded in our sense of well-being, expressed as instinct. We all run on our own individual rhythm, a beat keyed to our personal energy level, at a velocity between Speedy Gonzalez and lazy boy. So on a freeway, anyone programmed to go 65 mph who suddenly gets brought up short by someone moseying along at 45 is destined to go ape in the true sense of that word. Their primal sense of forward motion has, His Holiness said, been thwarted.

I know that feeling well. I am a speed queen constantly cut off at the pass. An unending stream of dawdling drivers unwilling to acknowledge the exclusive privilege of the left lane-- even as they pass signs that say: Slower Traffic Keep Right, thwart an instinctual sense of movement honed keeping up with a grandmother who trotted even when she was 95. I have to work very hard to keep calm when I have to keep my foot on the brake going forward. Since I can't get past their car, I have to work extremely hard to get past other driver's selfishness to forgive them. 

Part of the reason I have a problem with forgiveness is that I understand it's these pokes who cause the mysterious sudden clogs that make you slam on the brakes and pray the car behind you does quickly too. Dawdlers cause others to slalom dangerously across lanes, putting other drivers in jeopardy, just to get around them. Crawlers cause accidents. California and New York highways are especially nerve-wracking, constipated as they are by sashaying egomaniacs hogging the left lane.

As much as I love that lane, I have no problem yielding its privilege to a car roaring toward my tailgate. It's not just that I want to steer clear of a fender bender. In my dreams slowpokes yield for me, so why not set an example and try to make dreams come true? More crucially, why torture someone trying to get ahead? Especially when I have no idea why. Maybe the passenger is about to have a baby? Maybe the plane is 15 minutes from leaving the runway? Maybe the driver is desperate to pee? Who am I to judge? I was once literally racing a potentially dying dog to the vet when I was abruptly brought up short by some gray-haired dick smooth talking a sweetie in his expensive two-seater top down. He was doing 15 miles per hour. Every time I flashed my lights or tapped my horn for him to pull over, he stepped on his brake to dead stop as though he owned the road. And while he was playing his dangerous game, my dog got closer to death. Who wants to grow up to be a jerk like that?

When you watch your mind while you are behind the wheel, you eventually understand driving requires your Bodhisattva best. A foot on the gas pedal means your survival actually depends on being mindful of others. You absolutely must take them into account and deal with should I put it....head on. On highways shared by Chinese who drive like they are on a two-wheel bicycle and Latino teens whizzing by with macho v...v...vroom to spare, you must give full attention to the moment if you want to get to the next one. You must give these offensives the best defensive driving. When you live among armies of the elderly, you have to realize they have nowhere to go and all day to get there. You could give them a heart attack making them rush, and anyway most of the time they really are so focused on staying at the wheel, they become oblivious to others.

I sometimes think in a car on the road everybody thinks they are the only body. Countless drivers sit in the cocoon of their vehicle, chatting away or contemplating their next move, completely oblivious to the cars around them. My particular favorites are those who, like the left lane loungers, never notice or just don't care there is someone else behind them. They slow to crawl while finishing a phone conversation or searching for something in the glove box or rummaging in the paper pile on the passenger seat. Never occurs to them to pull over. 

Some people leave two full car lengths empty between themselves and the car in front. So what that they've prevented the car behind from, say in San Francisco, pulling into the special and very short left turn lane, thus clogging up lanes of traffic behind. So what that they've thwarted others from making the light and not having to wait as long as three minutes for the next green at the five road intersection because, hey, they made it. Who else is there?

My real super favorites are drivers who suddenly see a parking space or a turn they forgot about and slam on their brakes as though nobody else is anywhere around. It's all about them. Just like my superduper favorites, the 20somethings whose sense of entitlement is so strong, they will--without blinker of course-- pull into a lane without even bothering to check if someone else is already right there in it. Twice now I've come close to collision.

The more I watch my mind, the more I see how the selfishness of other drivers makes me lose my mind behind the wheel. I want to scream: Hey! You are not the only person in the universe. But the Buddhist in me says to swallow the road rage and digest the insult. These people on the roadways of Samsara are not under the influence of Dharma, trying to get to Nirvana.  

Driving is great practice in confronting the foibles of others and surviving them.  It's the hard work of accepting that there are others. It's the challenge of understanding  their speeds, sharing the road, and having the generosity to get out of their way. An automobile is truly a vehicle/yana for a Bodhisattva.

~Sandy Garson "Wordsmithing to attest how the Dharma saved me from myself!"

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Sunday, January 11, 2015

Warm Thoughts and Smiles for January

~Sandy Garson "Wordsmithing to attest how the Dharma saved me from myself!"

Technorati Tags: , , , , , , Creative Commons License This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
Click here to request Sandy Garson for reprint permission.
Yours In The Dharma 2001-2010, Sandy Garson Copyright 2001-2010 Sandy Garson All rights Reserved