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.
Sunday, May 29, 2016
I am now running life's marathon in the breakdown lane. First came loss of waist, memory, energy and appetite. Now hearing aids and cataract removal. Impermanence is in my face. I am a walking talking poster girl for primate change.
Bravery is the coin of this mysterious realm. It's tough to realize you have a shelf life, to accept the use-by and expiration date, to live through the daunting inconvenience of them often being different. It feels like the final test of that Dharma practice where you ask yourself: am I my eyes? If i lose my left little finger, I am still I? Is my hair me? Am I not me without hair? Remembering the practice is like aloe for a burn.
More Dharma on display: the only part of me that isn't noticeably deteriorating or diminishing is that ineffable,
intangible, secret "voice" that just keeps on noticing everything and gossiping about it. My mind is still teenage peppy when my body is far from it. Is the mind me? What does it mean to lose your mind? Outside Dharma, we are addicted to speed, to hurry up, to having it now bigger and better and faster than ever, except when it comes to aging. It seems to be very fast so you'd think we'd like that. But oddly we want slo-mo and lots of instant replay. Magazines
keep trying to convince everyone 70 is the new 40 and 80 the new 60. Well even though most people are amazed that I am at least 25 years older than I look, reality has convinced me these are the same old, same old. Life is not
easily fooled, especially by the glitzy rhetoric of corporations
with products to push. Have you never seen the sag of a lifted faced? Are those wrinkles me? If I lost an arm, am I still fully me? These days I explain, particularly to doctors, I can't tell if what's happening is perfectly normal--wear and tear, or a crisis I can't bear to recognize. The problem is I've never been where I am, so how can I know what to expect? Every year has become a new city never visited, a place I haven't explored before to get bearings and comfort level. Then just when I start to know the territory, I'm in some place totally new having to get acquainted with different terrain. I feel like a perpetual tourist: asking directions, clutching at maps, wandering wondering when I get to go home to the familiar. I find comfort only in the fact that I am not alone and this is essentially par for the course. Demise is the most inconvenient truth. Life is a conveyor belt we don't control. We have taken to barricading ourselves in stone mansions, tenured jobs, Kryptite and Botox to paralyze forward momentum, yet time still turns us into nomads who must move from one pasture to another. Although we won't admit it, we are all migrants. We immigrate from 20 to 50 to 75 and onward. We migrate from peaks to plains to canyons, from oases to deserts, or maybe the other way around. We do not stay put. There is no holding steady. And no security line to guarantee safety. There is only getting used to those ideas. I am learning what Trungpa Rinpoche meant when he exhorted us to be fearless warriors, especially in the breakdown lane.
I am among those "others" on the panel that night. I get to talk about how certain ingredients and cooking styles crossed the world's highest mountains and came down to earth for the rest of us. Very familiar foods! Come one and all!
HIMALAYAN FOOD IN JACKSON HEIGHTS
6:30 - 8:00 PM
MUSEUM OF FOOD AND DRINKS PANEL
DISCUSSION ON HIMALAYAN CUISINE
This panel discussion is organized by
the Museum of Food and Drink (MOFAD) and co-presented by the Rubin Museum. The
event will take place off-site in the Jackson Heights neighborhood of Queens.
Jackson Heights, Queens, is one the
most diverse neighborhoods in the country. The neighborhood’s international
population is reflected in its dizzying array of food businesses, from Indian
mega-grocers to taco trucks. Since the 2000s Jackson Heights has also become
home to a large Himalayan population and many restaurants that serve that
community. Now it’s possible to savor Tibetan momo dumplings and milk tea, as
well as Nepali sukuti (meat jerky) and thali platters, all within a few blocks
of the subway.
Join us for a panel discussion
moderated by Yanki Tshering of the Business Center for New Americans with Tashi
Chodron of the Rubin Museum, Pema Yangzom and Tenzing Ukyab of Himalayan Yak,
Learn about the culinary and cultural diversity of
Himalayan cuisines, and hear the personal stories of Himalayan food entrepreneurs
in New York. Afterward, stick around for tastings from the neighborhood.
At the start of this year of the Fire Monkey, a Dharma brother of mine confided our beloved Rinpoche had been pushing him for three years with greater and greater ferocity to start a simple, free meditation group, perhaps in the afternoon to be available to seniors. Rinpoche intuited we are going through normal physical and mental changes while buffeted by the stressful swirl of cultural shift. "He told me we were heading into rough times and he wanted to make the umbrella of the lineage available for everyone during the storm. He wanted those of us having a rough time in a rough life to get under it to take shelter with the greatest masters." Mark claims he finally gave up procrastinating and got a group going because of me: because I spontaneously reached out and contacted him to have coffee when I was in his neighborhood, because I agreed to help him with this group in any way, because our omniscient Rinpoche specifically wanted me to know he heard me praying and was responding with this embrace.
Apparently my coffee call to Mark was not spontaneous after all. Rinpoche was riding to the rescue at the most auspicious of all calendar times: the start of a Guru Rinpoche year when actions and merit are exponentially magnified. It
has been a rough time in an often rough life so I write beyond awed
that Rinpoche chose this moment of enormous changes at the last minute
to reveal himself as a magician. It's like discovering Tinkerbell really will twinkle again if only you will believe. Rinpoche's move came simultaneously with the start of the Fire Monkey year. Every day since early February has lived up to that billing. Life has been a tornado of breathless energy and sweeping change, action and opportunity, innovation and enervation, whirlwind shake-ups and quantum leaps. In current lingo, mass disruption. Headlines tell us every day in every way, the whole culture, the whole country, and half the world is topsy-turvy. Institutions, ideologies, inventions, identities are falling apart, torn asunder by cyclones of human fury. It's very Yeats: "The center cannot hold, the worst are filled with passionate intensity." We are slouching toward... who knows.
I have not been spared. Endless physical and circumstantial punches seem to be sculpting me into somebody I don't recognize as me. It's almost impossible to see without glasses. My hearing has been diagnosed as sub par. I didn't get a job I was perfect for or any job I applied for because I am too old. My latest cooking project collapsed. My flat won't sublet no matter how many outlets I advertise it. And my closest loved one is taking a spouse who doesn't want to know me. Add to this, me who will never be accused of exercise now goes faithfully to a water aerobics class. And I who have always been a night owl am now asleep by 10, awake before 6.
Yesterday news reports confirmed what everybody who lives in what used to be the shining city on the hill, San Francisco, knows too well: the city has become the property crime center of the country. This has nothing to do with the well documented crime of landlords evicting low income tenants to get high Airbnb rates or put up luxury properties for the narcissistic techies. It's about auto burglaries being up 300% in two years, assaults happening regularly, the dissolution of rapid mass transit exacerbating low income rage, and the increase in derelict homeless shitting on the streets because they have "rights" here while committing crimes for drugs. The gloriously vaunted, fabled venture capital utopia by the bay is in reality dirty, dangerous and dysfunctional.
It's not just that I can't get to the grocery store without navigating a narrow path through pit bulls, punks, pushers and panhandlers. Five weeks ago today, my car was stolen from a legal parking spot on a very busy street at the busiest time in the very busy civic and cultural center of town. Vanished without a trace. I went from flabbergasted to infuriated when I discovered how hard it was to reach any official city number because of low staffing, then how uninterested the police were when I finally got through. They didn't even care there was a video camera on the portico of the closest building because, I later learned, the DA doesn't care to prosecute or deal with crimes like this. San Francisco supports crime without consequence. Just another incident, what's new, shrug, sigh. But this crime was my incident. And as life would have it, it happened on the very day I started working for the San Francisco Police. Having waited three weeks for the precinct Captain to have time for a meeting, I was in his office that very morning starting my volunteer position as Communication Liaison, being introduced to precinct personnel and warmly welcomed. In 21 years, I had never been in a San Francisco police station, and by some bizarre turn of events I was back that same evening as a crime victim.
How did I come to be volunteering as a reporter for the Police? Because hordes of homeless were overwhelming my front steps. Every morning there were human feces and urine in front of the garage, used needles and bottles on the steps. Often rags were strewn across the sidewalk. What broke me was the individual who refused to abandon her camp on the front steps to let the five-year-old upstairs get down for preschool, then threw all her rags, needles and dirty cups at the kid before running away. I went right to this computer and wrote the most politely scathing letter to the district supervisor--someone who has to be elected--asking where our tax money was going since we paid the same as the uppity folks in super clean Pacific Heights, why the police were never visible, and what exactly did she plan to make the city do to stop my street from being a public toilet? Didn't ordinary citizens have rights?
Within an hour, the Supervisor responded. She confessed I'd made her aware of huge gaps in a system she thought she had coordinated. Evidently clearing the homeless from one area merely pushed them to another that had been ignored. An hour later I got an email from the precinct police captain, saying he was going to beef up patrols so our street was no longer ignored because he takes complaints seriously. And speaking of complaints, I wrote the best letter he'd ever seen and he happened to be looking for a good writer to help the station communicate better with the community. Would I like to help him do that?
In conversation with neuroscientists and psychologists, the Dalai Lama has often insisted you never find what you are not looking for. He was speaking about consciousness, about the Dharmakaya, the world wide web of invisible but powerfully tight connections. Everything is happening as part of a process, for a reason. We just have to understand the process and the reason is that the universe--the energy we are a piece of--wants us to float free and be well.
So I've detected a pattern in the seemingly random circumstances of my life at the start of this tumultous year of the Fire Monkey. In its very first week, I was able to do a bit of good by getting our street cleared of the daily download of human shit and urine and used needles. I got a physical mess cleaned up. I was now a friendly face and helping hand in the police precinct where the Captain said I had "a good heart." He couldn't see it had been badly broken by recent turns of events, but his welcome started to clean up that mess. Then Rinpoche stepped in by finally getting Mark's special meditation class started,
located perfectly on an uncrowded bus line. At the height of my plight, for an hour I got to meditate on
being swaddled by our guru's love, supported by his wisdom, protected by
his omniscience. Everything was going to turn out fine.
Sometimes amid the chaos, we don't get to know that until much later. That nerve-wracking night, while I was standing in front of the plexiglass windows of "my" police station filling out the requisite theft form, my Tibetan goddaughter phoned. I told her I couldn't talk because my car had just been stolen and I was at the police precinct. "Well good," she said cheerfully. "A big obstacle has been removed from your life." In the tension of that moment, I wanted to kill her and her unrelenting Tibetanness with my bare hands so I clicked the red hang up button. I walked home, newly terrified of the darkness, and spent the whole night awake, fuming about the brazen theft of my car, the callous police response, how dangerous San Francisco had become and Tashi saying my loss was good news.
Police officers I now worked with kept trying to assure me 90% of stolen cars in this city get recovered. The Captain took my welfare so personally, he sent a police escort to bring me home from returning my temporary insurance funded rental car. The precinct's chief investigator fed my information into all his databases. Ten days went by and the car did not surface. Stuck with San Francisco's dismal public transit and unable to do the things I loved like senior swimming, I cursed the statues on my shrine for not helping me. I put the entry fob in front of the Karmapa and sometimes Mahakala, remover of obstacles, to no avail. I dissed them both. Well, friends began to say jovially, at least now you won't have to drive again across the country, which you didn't really want to do anyway. Yes. How about that! I didn't have to drive that damned car back to the East Coast, 10 excruciating days of white lines, bad food and ugly motels. Been there, done that, hated it. And now I didn't have to make the dreaded journey again. Tashi was correct: an obstacle had been removed. That was quite a relief. It got even bigger after I found a free miles cross country air ticket at a decent time, not even a red eye. Getting from sea to shining sea was now going to be so easy and cheap, I found myself praying the police did not recover my car. I apologized to Mahakala and Karmapa and Rinpoche. As life moved on, I began to see the theft was a message to stop going back and forth between two coasts, especially when life has gotten noticeably brighter on one of them but not the other. I don't have the money anymore for doubling up on everything including property taxes. A dual life is not sustainable because you are always leaving people who want to see you or not participating because of events after your time. I didn't want to hear that I had to give my beloved home up. The Buddha warned us amply about the suffering of impermanence and I am nowhere exempt from hanging on to what I love just because I love it. Rinpoche was pushing courage on me, forcing me to wind down and clear up so I could focus tightly now on what's most crucial. I managed to find a new car. It's going to cost money I no longer have but a good friend long ago organized a loan I can still draw on. I have other financial problems that won't self-solve no matter how hard I try. But the police have chauffeured me around in moments of great need to thank me for my work on their behalf. I have met new people through that work. I have play dates with children and concert tickets, free food talks and Dharma events to attend so I get out of the little space I have.
I don't get around as much as I could with a car but I've survived. I get through the day with enough food, phone conversations, and activities to make me tired and I celebrate that fact. Day by day, bird by bird, I'm doing just fine. Looking ahead, out there two years, brings real stress but now is the time and there is food, friends, fun. So there isn't any stress if I stay focused on what I have at hand and what I have to do that minute. No ruing the past: can't change it now to make it better. No peeking at the future. Rinpoche's fast forwarded the action. Real Dharma practice has suddenly happened, ready or not. When I started study 28 years ago, I was told the end game was to not get knocked over by killer waves in the ocean of Samsara. We start by letting little ones lap at our ankles and try to stand firm. We wade in up to our calves and use our dharma training to stay upright. Waves cut us off at the knees but we learn to stay afloat. Last week Mark asked us what we felt about our meeting and Rinpoche's words. I quickly volunteered that to my own amazement, while everything had been going wrong and I felt the me I know was drowning, I was totally all right. My life has become a scary mess but at the end of the day I feel fine. I just know what really matters is my mind and that Rinpoche is guiding me. "That's it!" Mark said. "That's what Rinpoche wants us to feel, safe under the umbrella. That's his blessing."
Oh yes, one last bizarre bit: the only image of the remover of obstacles, Mahakala, I could find for my altar has been this plastic amulet on the right. As you can see, I keep it supported
by the cup of my tea offering, which I place anew every morning. Normally when I take it away to change the tea, the plastic amulet falls over as does that tiny heart I put next to it. When I bring new tea in the morning, I have to re-position them both against the cup. I do not know how to account for the astonishing fact that about a week after my car was stolen and I began to realize it might be for the best, when I removed the tea cup, Mahakala and the heart remained standing unsupported and unmoved. This happened for several days. I have not been able to make it happen again. There really is magic in this universe.
My yesterday started with the usual cup of cappuccino in the ordinary one size fits all morning. I sipped. I sat at my computer trying to get it all together because I don't wake ready to roll. I wake up slowly. I opened my email and was immediately drawn to a message from an old college friend who had been spectacularly generous to me. She wrote to say her husband of 48 years, from whom she'd been inseparable--business partners, best friends, yacht crew--for the last 25 died two days earlier. "I'm already at the point where I realize I need to be around friends," she said. "This is hard... ." I could only imagine. But what to do? I immediately wrote back offering to come right over and I invited her to join a mutual friend and I for dinner next week. With a heavy heart, I read the rest of my mail, three newspapers and my Facebook feed, always thinking about my friend suffering. Then I washed out my coffee mug and did something hard. I went to the public pool for morning swim. I have such a long tradition of being lazy, I always say rather cheerfully: "Nobody will ever accuse me of exercise." Lately though, I find exercise imperative because as my late aunt warned me: "If you don't move, you won't move."
Thinking about the loss of a life motivated me to make the effort to extend my life. I killed myself for 25 minutes in that pool, doing jumping jacks with Styrofoam barbells and laps with a kickboard, stretches with a noodle and breast strokes galore. I was grateful I could do this, glad I did and dedicated the merit of my good fortune to have access to this pool and time to use it.
I was in the locker room elatedly exhausted when I heard a cell phone sound. Certain it couldn't be mine, which is normally quiet, I kept toweling myself. The phone kept ringing. How come nobody was answering? Just in time I realized, it was coming from my locker, my purse. I almost missed an even longer term friend, one from childhood. She's been the athletic one among us, queen of exercise. She's been encouraging me in my less and less feeble attempts. "So," I began brightly, "you got me in the locker room. I did all the things you told me to do in the pool. I hope you're proud." "Not right now," she said just above a whisper. "I'm calling at this odd hour because i needed to tell someone my dear friend Joyce's daughter was just killed while riding her bike. I've known her since she was a baby and she became this terrific person. She's the one I was going to visit on the way to visit you. Now I won't be coming. This is just so so...horrible." I told my shaken friend I'd call her later to see how she was doing. I dressed, drove home, sat in front of the computer and tried to continue an ordinary day. But I got other hints it wasn't the usual. In the midst of a brutal El Nino winter, spring was sending a save the date message: the sky was cloudless, the wind still and the air temperature a very balmy 74º. The next day was forecast as cold and cloudy, more rain on the way. I made another coffee and went back to the computer and tried to keep on keeping on. But two deaths with signs of Spring gnawed at me, gnawed...pawed... . Finally, I got out of my cushy chair, grabbed my keys, put on my sunglasses and went outside. I needed to see the trees bursting into bloom, hear the birds chirping as they made their nests. I watched all the human beings in their various get-ups and brightly colored hair scampering along the sidewalks happily oblivious of their final destination. I walked on the brightest side of each street, stuck my face into the sun and eventually even threw my arms out wide. That I could courageously do this like jumping jacks in the pool made me smile. The sunshine took my thoughts to all the Dharma gurus and the message they're trying to deliver and the way every single one of them who gets the message so easily laughs at everything, and I said to no one in particular: "Yes!" Out here exulting in the sunshine, the fragrant blossoms, the melodious birds and gurgling babies being rollered by, I am alive!
About ten years ago at a group teaching, Rinpoche urged us to give up negative thoughts. Mind has a direct route to the tongue, he said, so whatever we think in private will inevitably exit and become public. Many thoughts shipped on this bullet train can be dangerous explosives and the hurt they inflict on someone else could easily boomerang back to harm us. So, he concluded, it's better not to have negative thoughts.
I didn't need Donald Trump's campaign to know just how deadly negative thoughts the mouth fires off like darts can be. "What's on her lung is on her tongue,"
is how kinder people described my grandmother whose mouth was an assault
rifle aimed at anybody in hearing distance. Since family was in closest
range, we were her constant target and her words permanently maimed all of
us one way or another. I don't think she even noticed. Asked in her mid 90s by a group of ladies who
lunch how she managed to stay so sharp and strong, she shot back: "i don't keep anything
in. I just let it all out." Those women thought my grandmother being a pistol was funny.
The one thing in life I did not want to be was a mental firing squad. Then, ironically, shortly after she died, I
participated in a blizzardy winter 30 day group retreat where we were
asked to note every time during one single day we got
peeved, annoyed, or irritated. I spent that day noticing nonstop silent
bitching: about having to eat tedious Oryoki style, and why didn't
anybody shovel the front path because it was icy dangerous to walk? How
dare someone move my shoes outside the meditation hall! Why did she push
her cushion back like that and crowd me? Why didn't someone put the
outside lights on since it was dark and perilous to walk out there?
Nothing was right. What was wrong with these people? Didn't they know
what they were supposed to do? How it should be? By evening, I was
exhausted piling up evidence of my discontent and shaken to the core discovering what a full time fault finder I was. Dissatisfied with everything and everyone, I was my grandmother.
You better believe I wanted to fix that right away, but I didn't know how to not have negative thoughts. That still feels like a very advanced practice for yogis isolated in caves instead of someone struggling along the crowded sidewalks of Samsara. Maybe this is because I seem to have come into this world equipped with an acute sense of right and wrong that is always demanding to be outted. One astrologer says: "According to Capricorns, there is only a right
way and a wrong way to do things and ...their way is usually right." Evidently, it's my nature to know what's best and get
everybody to shape up. I must say it did make me a good investigative reporter and opinion writer, maybe even why I started this blog.
It is also unimpeachable psychological truth-- and a dead giveaway--that those perpetually disappointed by their own imperfection will be relentlessly hard on themselves, and by extension thanks to habit mercilessly critical of others.
The jolt of that retreat made me try my eyes out to stay mindful of constant irritations so I could swallow them lest somebody discover my inner Bitch. Then Rinpoche came along and gave his teaching on the mind-to-mouth information highway, the mental transit system guaranteed to deliver news of negativity. Now alerted, I began to see even if I did manage to keep my critical opinions from spilling out, they leaked into my behavior. I was impatient or grouchy, snide,
stand offish or rejecting. "No thanks, I don't want to go there...or don't want to see them." As I got more adept at noticing my rejection of what was sent my way, I remembered the late Trungpa Rinpoche said boredom was simply resistance to accepting what's happening. It's a firewall that lets us refuse to participate because we don't like the scenario. What it really is, I find now, is petulance because we want something "better." We set up a huge pile of "might have beens", what we missed. O how we hurt ourselves.
Negative thoughts have so many on-ramps to the information highway, it's impossible to patrol all the snits all the time. Rinpoche was right: it's best to stop negative thinking all together.
Since I don't know how to do that, I've been trying to stop as much as possible, justto get the feel. For instance, I share a two-unit house with the nicest young family anybody could
want for neighbors. Except for laundry. They don't do it and then
suddenly three or four humongous containers of dirty clothes show up in
front of the machines. The washer gets so stuffed to the gills, its
controls blink Error. Often for days. Or the dryer is equally jam packed and nobody empties it or notices what's in there is still damp. For days. They have to start all over again. I
try to do my laundry in the lulls, but I never know when the tsunami is
coming. So there are times I go down with a small basket of dirty
underwear and towels and want to scream: Just pay attention to your laundry and give me a chance! But I don't say a word.
my former two-unit house, the young family downstairs monopolized the
machines in the same selfish way, and while I struggled not to
voice my frustration, the roommate I had to take in went ballistic. She
lived by an absolutely inflexible routine that for some mysterious reason mandated
laundry on Thursday from 3 to 4. While I quickly figured that out and stayed out of her way, the folks downstairs definitely didn't know, so if they had stuff in
the machines at her must moment, the whole house exploded from her rage. I spent a lot of
time apologizing for how absurd she was, which brought that family and me to wink and nod intimacy-- and
forever stopped me from venting my own frustration with them.
I started to do then, I do now: I take their stuff out of the machines,
put my stuff in, do my wash, dry it and put their stuff back. Usually
they never know. Or I bite my tongue and wait one day, leaving my
basket of dirty clothes in front of the machines as a message. This
resourcefulness keeps me on happy terms with my neighbors and causes at
most a day's delay. Annoying but no real harm: I still have clean
underwear in the drawer and towels in the closet. Just yesterday, the young woman upstairs texted me a long apologetic message whose drift was: "I know I've been doing laundry for 10 days but I am trying to create spaces for you so please tell me if it's working."
I like to think quietly adjusting my expectation and irritation is what Sylvia Boorstein calls "managing gracefully." Of course I now know those two--expectation and irritation--are joined at the hip. Give up the first and you automatically never get the second. You get nothing to grouse about. You can be sunnier.
Expectation is "should be." It's our very own handmade opinion of what's right, how things are supposed to go--essentially happily ever after. Expectations are makeup and manicure, all the past conditioning we apply to the present moment to make us happy with it, to let us own it. We travel with overweight carry-on baggage so we can style every moment. What a waste when the moment is really just sailing off into the sunset and look! here's another.
Wonder of wonders! Buddha said, when he discovered deep in our heart of hearts, every last one of us has our very own perspective on how things should be. We each have bespoke expectations. And we each expect them to be met or we go all negative. That's the art of the deal or maybe there's the rub: my "should" is not yours, neither is my must-do list. So who's right? What's wrong? Which opinions do you trust on Yelp! And what's so great about yours that it beats mine? Why do you have these opinions in the first place?
More to the Buddha's point: trying to make those once upon a time "shoulds" come true is what causes our irritation and suffering. There's the harm boomeranging back. Remember the laundry on Thursday woman? Do you wonder why she had no friends? Expectations and opinions cut possibility off at the pass. They shoot us in the foot.
We all know the sad jokes about the Jewish mother or the insufferably opinionated in-laws who have to be banished, or at least kept at bay. There's an easy way to see negativity boomeranging back to harm. When my peers got married, meddling parents were always a worry. Now we are the parents, the in-laws. Our eyesight is dimming but experience lets us see very clearly what's going on and what the outcome is likely to be. Sadly we have all discovered nobody wants their life lacquered with our opinion. Everybody prefers their own. As my cousin says: "I use the excuse of hearing. I pretend I don't hear
what's being said and that way I can't jump in or even comment negatively to my son. You just have to be deaf if you want to stay included."
Nobody likes a busybody because shoulds and musts are not necessarily shared. (See Culture Wars: zealous people busily interfering with other people's lives instead of the harder work of tending the hardship of their own.) Nobody wants to be bombed by a barrage of negative opinions. I can't be my grandmother any more because now that I am fully focused, I find steering my own life hard enough to not have the energy, time or inclination to interrupt anybody else's. I can't know everything they are dealing with and factoring in. Besides, the world has radically changed. What do I know?
When I don't expect, I find I can be pleasantly surprised. Discretion is a gift that keeps giving back, even laundry time. I'm getting better at keeping my mouth shut. Of course, as Rinpoche says, negative thoughts eventually find a way out. On the phone or at lunch, we old folks tell each
other all the things we don't dare tell the young, and we agree that all we can do is silently hope for the best. Our versionof course.
Author of How To Fix a Leek and Other Food From Your Farmers' Market, new edition published May 2011; and Veggiyana: the Dharma of Cooking, published September 2011 by Wisdom Publications. Founder and president of Veggiyana, a charitable effort to feed Buddhist monastics and schoolchildren in India, Nepal and Tibet. On Facebook as Prima Dharma Cook.
This is a blog of essays from the Buddhist perspective of Sandy Garson.
Visit my web site Yours In The Dharma, where I try to make sense of the bewilderment in daily life. I meditate aloud on how the teachings of my guru Khenchen Thrangu Rinpoche, the golden rosary of his Tibetan Kagyu lineage and the Buddha himself come alive in the headlines and heartaches to rescue us all from suffering.