meditation and monkey brain...

Nine Goldfish in the Zen Aquarium

In Retreat

Monkey-brain is the real enemy to meditation.  I can’t focus on my breath or anything else for more than a few minutes and then I’m thinking about what I had for breakfast, or what the vegetarian meal, at the retreat I am on, is going to taste like.  I ate at the Lotus Tea House on three occasions and even Jane Bond another vegetarian establishment and I actually quite enjoyed the lack of protein and the abundance of kale.  In my inner monologue I would never admit that to another living soul, vegetarian or otherwise.  

The “sausage” in my soup, I was convinced was real meat.  I was later to discover that it was a soy concoction of real meat.  The menu in these places reads “mock” salmon, mock chicken, mock beef.  Now sitting on my ass on a bean filled pillow in a remote area of the country with little or no cell reception listening to a Buddhist monk chant and explaining how I should be focussed on my breathing…in-breathing and out-breathing.  This is my reality.  

I’m stuck with this constant flow of consciousness monkey brain rambling free range from one thought to the next.  I could use a coffee. I had been to Indonesia once.  My wife put ice cubes in her coffee on our first date, but if she truly loves me why did she bring me here, God my ass itches.

Focus damn it!!  I’m trying to relax and be in the moment, at one with myself and the world.  I am on a voyage of inner discovery and tranquility.  That insane Seinfeld episode keeps looping in my head in which Jerry’s dad is screaming, “Serenity now.”

The monk chanting in front of me actually made a lot of sense.  “Satisfaction is characterized by inner peace…”

“When, through rituals and formalities, you create the spiritual space and atmosphere that you are seeking…

“God I want a coffee now.”

“What kind of beans are in the pillows we are sitting on and how long have they been there?  Are they coffee beans? Do they have free will?”

“if you have fear of some pain or suffering…”

I flow in and out…

He was making sense now.  He was explaining, in his very seductive, subdued intonations that our brains are like a jar filled with swirling water.  This jar, in his analogy, has five holes in the lid.  I’m not sure why five.  Does it have to do with the Pillars of Islam, but no this is Buddhism…focus.

“Maybe each hole represents one of the senses.  Do we have six?”

In each hole coloured crystals, or sand or something fine, powder-like, maybe Kool-Aid is dropped in the jar and mixed together.  Eventually all these crystals mix together to make one unified colour and that too eventually settles at the bottom of the jar.  The swirling is the monkey brain that all meditators suffer from, but when the swirling finally stops, and it will, you will find yourself in touch with….yourself.  The purpose of this retreat is to stop the swirling.

I see myself as a tiny speck, a crystal buried beneath many other crystals at the bottom of a huge tank.  I can’t breathe.  The water is moving.  It grows quiet.  There is stillness.  There is a oneness.  A singularity.  A unity.

I HAVE MADE A BREAK THROUGH...


Damn can I have a coffee now!

The monk was perfectly framed by an expansive window over looking a panorama of the river valley below. On the cedar deck behind the holy man a black cat, a bad omen, leisurely stretched and then stalked an invisible creature at the the edge of the deck, stage left, out of my field of vision.  This would soon and likely play out as a major life and death scenario in the deep grass.  So much was happening beyond these walls.  My temporal journey again interrupted by a natural phenomena of “nature versus nature” in the raw elements beyond the deck.  Beyond the babbling monk, mingled in my monkey mind.  Why could I not stay in the moment.  I looked around the room at the few dozen meditators all focussed and apparently “in the zone” with proper lotus position and index fingers touching thumbs.  Like drinking high tea, but we weren’t allowed the scones.

A moment to me is a series of dots on a graph to be extrapolated like a 40’s something gangster shooting an arch with his machine gun across a blank white screen, each bullet hole a point on a graph, an xy axis of time and existence.  Each dot a moment, but then each moment linked to the next to form a sequence, a sequence to form an event. 

My problem is I could not stay with the individual point  because for me each dot formed an array in a multitude of directions each forming a thought.  There was no moment so there was no “in the moment” for me there was only sequence and prediction.  Yet, I sat on my bean bag contemplating dots.  What was the black cat doing? How many dots does that sequence consume?  What were we having for lunch?  Do we even get snacks here?  Are all vegans Buddhists?  Why can't I paragraph properly?

The monk alternated between speaking, chanting and silence and so I began my inner journey.  My wife had instructed me quite firmly and I thought somewhat ironically that I should focus in on the pain and discomfort in order to make it go away.  I thought  that was somewhat like pouring lighter fluid on a candle to put out the flame.

Oddly, my wife’s suggestion had greater merit than I thought possible and I was drawn for once to the rhythm of my breathing.

“The retreat will be silent, and will focus on the practice based on the four foundations of: Mindfulness, Body, Feelings, Mind and Dhamma.”

Dhamma I thought I recognized as a lentil dish from Masala Bay a favourite Indian restaurant.  I was wrong.

Now sounding more commercial the monk intoned,”Read the brochure provided to you in your orientation package for this meditation weekend.  You are also scheduled for guided meditation, yoga, and an evening of Dharma talks.”

We were not one of the residential attendees at the retreat, as we lived so close to the center.  However, upon going home after each day of sessions we were expected to stay in “Retreat Mode” or noble silence as it was called.  I simply found this portion of the retreat to be extremely anti-social in nature and very contrary to my own nature.  My reasoning was that if I was to share a room with forty some other people for whatever purpose at some point I should be able to enter into meaningful dialogue with them.  It only made sense.

During lunch on the second day my nerves were a little frayed by this point after so much relaxation, tranquilly and meditation.  I had a tiny twitch starting under the left eye and something similar was happening in my left hand, my fingers tips were slightly numb.

We were to mindfully approach the kitchen, meaning a gag order not to talk.  There goes that twitch.  Silently we served ourselves our vegetarian lunch of dry granola bars, yogurt, kale, my God so much Kale, and many other things, mainly in Earth tones from nature’s bounty.  In addition to silence we were not to have eye contact.  I had read about that from stories of Gulag survivors.

On one level I rebelled and thought how bogus, but on another level I (and this had to me my inner monologue), “Yes, I know I am here to discover my inner workings; so why should I have the need to talk, or for that matter look at another soul?”  I understood, but had not processed or internalized those messages.

Susan, our hostess, was a tall graceful woman in her mid-fifties who spoke in a soothing voice, who descended to the floor with fluidity of motion. Her lithe body posed perfectly on her yoga mat above which she appeared to levitate by several inches.   I so admired and hated her. She was that perfect.  “Ajahn Kusalo,” she said softly as she began her introductions.  I realized that was a name.  

She continued, “Is a Theravadan Monk, originally from New Zealand and was ordained under the guidance of Ajahn Viradhammo.”

I concluded that “Ajahn” must be either a title or a very common name.

“He spent the majority of his training in Europe and has recently begun to travel.”

I began to fidget as I watched the monk as he sat there, also with perfect posture, listening to Susan’s introduction.  His robes, I observed were more golden than orange.  Like a sunset. It seemed to shimmer in the distance. 

I don’t know what I expected to see.  My mind flashed to old Vietnamese news clips from the “American War” in which Buddhist monks set themselves on fire in protest to the American atrocities conducted in their country.  They too wore orange robes.  How could so much peaceful thought emerge from such horror?  Americans and their foreign policies.  Trying to save the world when they can't save themselves.

Back to the introduction, focus.  

“He came involved in a children’s Buddhist camp in the Amaravati monastery in England and also created an interactive web site about Buddhism for children before entering his monastic life,” and so the introduction went.

The introduction had me in a meditative pose thinking about the monks resume as I also looked sideways at the 40 gallon aquarium that seemed to house, to my count, only nine very content Gold Fish.  They were hypnotic. The bubbles streaming to the surface so beautiful and symmetrical.  I was floating, the water was warm…

“Between the mind and the body there is a bridge, the practice of mindful breathing,” and my mind was off and running to my Mennonite childhood sitting in the front row in a hard pew listening to Pastor Penner speaking about redemption, missionaries and God’s love.  I couldn’t listen to three hours of Sunday school, English service and German service any better as a child then now as an adult in meditation. 

I day dreamed of Jesus rapidly followed by visions of seductive Candy Rivet.  Candy and I had our intimate clandestine rendezvous between our garage and our neighbours garage, a place built for privacy where we frequently met.  Talk about being in the moment!

Candy was stunning, two years older than me and worldly wise…she knew things.

******

Candy purred her good byes as she buttoned her blouse.  “Same time tomorrow,” as she ran off.

Hey, I thought I missed that whole sexual dream sequence with Candy.  My mind must have drifted again.  I felt robbed as I focussed on the goldfish and then the gold clad monk, my body on the pillow, finally all the silent people in the room.  I shook my head, blinked my eyes as if still searching the room for Candy.

Behind the monk the black cat strutted across the deck with a little field mouse in it’s mouth.  Clearly not a vegetarian.

Again I became aware of Ajahn modulating voice bringing me back back from my final episode of Monkey brain for the day.  I was aware of the pain in my back, the itch in my shoulder and his words reached me as I did listen.  

"With mindful breathing you are aware of breathing in and breathing out and if you continue with that concentration you will be able to connect mind and body.  Rarely in our lives do we find mind and body together.  Our body might be there but our mind is somewhere else."

I listened with a profound sense of guilt realizing how poorly I had merged mind and body.  This I could now see was a long and tortuous journey to inner peace.  I was mindful of at least that much.  In noble silence I gathered my things for the evening. I do remain steadfast in the words of the Dalai Lama, “One who smiles has a happy, successful life.”  

Play Date (with my grand kids)

Play Date

The rain had abated enough for us to resume play on the driveway.  It was somewhat of a stretch to peel Ryan and Aurora away from their TV programming to which they hold a strong attachment.  Once outside they enjoy reality play enough to forget their  various monitor attachment issues.

I promised to push Aurora on the swing and play the new racket game Ryan had received as a end of school pre summer gift.  

“Point your toes to the clouds.”  I pulled the swing toward me, with Aurora onboard, and gave a mighty release sending her soaring.  I pushed her several times before I was quickly dismissed. 

“See, grandpa I can pump now.”

How long had grandma and I tried to teach her the pumping action with her legs and now that she had so expertly mastered it I sadly discovered I had rendered myself obsolete on yet another level.  

At least we continued our banter.  We always had important issues to discuss, such as her friends, “Big Girl School”, wardrobe, including princess dresses, dolls and various toys, insects, play ground activities and snacking options.

“Did you enjoy the baseball game on Father’s day?”

“It was very loud.”

“But fun?”

“There must have been a 1000 people there.  I see a snake .”

She jumped from the swing, another acquired skill and chased after the snake next to the patio not the least bit afraid watching it as it wriggled into the neighbours yard and out of sight. Based on our I-witness accounts Ryan later identified it as a Korn snake very common to this region.

Shifting thoughts and attention in a nano second away from the snake.  “Let’s play in the front.”

Ryan was out front with his new rackets and rubberized ball with streamers on it.  We stood in a rough triangle.  They each with a racket.  I threw directly to Aurora’s.  She tipped the ball up in the air.  I caught it and passed it on to Ryan.  He hit it and we kept a loose rhythm  going.

“There’s a spiky caterpillar!”  Pointing to the edge of the driveway.

They ran over.  Ryan threw up his arms in a protective stance like a policeman at a crime scene.

“Don’t get too close.  He can shoot his spikes into your eyes and blind you.  They are very dangerous,” he cautioned.

Aurora and I stood behind Ryan’s protection as we watched the caterpillar labour diagonally across the driveway towards the distant grass.

“I want to squish it.”  Aurora said.

Ryan reasoned with his sister.  “What if you were the caterpillar.  You would want to live.”

I thought a small victory for nature and ecology.

We backed away and resumed play.

I hit the ball between Aurora’s extended arms as she reached out with the racket.

“Grandpa scored!”  She shouted excitedly.

“That’s not how the game is play.”  Ryan pointed out.

“Yes, but she seems to like her own rules.”

At that Aurora abruptly dropped her racket and ran to the end of the driveway where the caterpillar had just reached the freedom of the grass.  

She squished it with her pink princess shoes with great authority.

“Aurora, why did you step on it?”  I said too loudly, almost in shock.

“Grandpa it was getting away.”

“Can I have a ginger cookie now?”  

Clearly the sign of a clean conscience.

I The Fool

I the Fool

Five long years would pass before we met again as strangers; but on this night we roasted marshmallows on sharpened sticks while watching our giant shadows cast by the camp fire against the sedate Ponderosa Pines and gazed in awe as the sparks cascaded like tiny meteorites.

She slurped her hot chocolate from a travel mug from Starbucks and peered up at the night sky.  “You see that tiny streak of light moving across the sky.”  I held her small hand and I pointed skyward with hers.  “That’s a satellite.  It will be over China in 15 minutes.  Quick drink up your hot chocolate before the Chinese take it all.”

I smiled as the chocolate  dribbled down her chin.  Our eyes caught and I jokingly said, “You must be the clumsy daughter.”  We laughed together for the last time.

The following morning from our camp site we hiked and saw an elk calf with her mother in a meadow.  We gave her a wide berth. The Mothers can be dangerous. “I wonder what she named her baby?”

My daughter whispered as we passed.  “Looks like a Bambi to me.”

By the lake we took pictures near  the rocks lining the path where the chipmunks, in quick succession darted in and out as clouds scudded to block the sun.  We reached the tea house and drank our hibiscus and orange blends like two plantation owners surveying their fields.  We sat comfortable in our silence watching the summer rains.

The next morning, in Calgary, parked beneath the soaring ski jump a remnant legacy from an 80’s Olympics we sat waiting patiently, quietly smelling like camp fire smoke and bacon fat waiting for their mother to arrive and take the girls for the balance of the summer.  My allotted time was over.

My eldest slowly placed her sleeping bag and back pack in her mother’s dirty van.  She helped her younger sister do the same. It was the van we has purchased together eons before in a another life for family travel and vacations.

I said my good-byes to two sad and down cast faces.  A quick hug because lingering is painful.

“I love you daddy”  in chorus and they were gone.

Then

Turning to my station wagon

“SHE”

Thrust some papers and told me to sign.

We argued loudly.

I told her that in the lawyers office and not here was the place for papers.

I ripped the paper and they fluttered to the pavement in section B stall 34, like acid rain

Persistent and ever aggressive she yelled, “See your father doesn’t love you.  He won’t sign the papers.”  She got into my Outback.

“Get out I said, you trespassing bitch…reason was dead and gone.

Foolishly, I drove forward.  Reason dictated to get out and run and never look back. 

By the curb she started to get out, but as I sped to safety she raised her arm as if to make one final irrational point and have the last word.

“You tell your sisters…”  her arm now inside the car as I had already started to accelerate she never finished that sentence.

She withdrew her hand, but likely caught it on the door losing her balance she fell and hit the curb.  Her blood mixed with her hate.

Before even reaching the Trans Canada highway I knew how screwed I was. I knew how she would spin these events and what little chance I would have to explain.  She had already phoned in an assault charge to the police  who were now searching for me.  She had explained in detail her version of the events as to how I had dragged her through the parking lot as she hung on to the car door for dear life, as I swore and laughed at her.

At the sight of the first cruiser I turned my self in and described the situation.  Surrendered myself to the officer and left my car in a mini mall parking lot.  

I spent the night in jail staring at my feet and all I could see were dancing shadows on Ponderosa Pines.

“You must be my clumsy daughter and I the fool.”

National Art Gallery...Ottawa

The Joy of Flying

The Joy of Flying

 Likely, the first in flight beverage served was in 1783 in the presence of Benjamin Franklin on the premier manned hydrogen balloon ascent.  In celebration upon their success a couple of aristocratic balloonists uncorked a bottle of champagne in celebration. I’m certain that when the Wright Brothers conquered the air, for the those few brief seconds, on the historic dunes of Kitty Hawk there was pure rapture in the success of the flight.  This despite the fact there was no in-flight entertainment or meals.

The technology of flight and the services related to it have been developing at an accelerating rate.  For twenty million American dollars one can take a flight on a Soyuz rocket into space.  Soon other space competitors will be offering sub orbital flights for much less and the gap from Kitty Hawk to Space will have been bridged in less than a century.

But on Earth, now, the present flight environment has changed since deregulation of the aviation industry in 1978.  Prior to that time in the Golden Age of flight when flying was more of a novelty and a privilege of the wealthy, just as early balloon flight was reserved for aristocracy, seats were comfortable, meals were sumptuous and served with real silverware and offered in numerous courses, with copious amounts of alcohol finished off with an after dinner cigarette…all in flight.

No worries about pesky terrorists, plane hijackings, security checks, creams and lotions in carry-on luggage.  It was a care free time for air travel.  Women wore pearls and men wore ties.  It was almost like going to the opera.

Last year I flew a Spirit airline flight from Detroit to Las Vegas. If school buses could fly this flight would have about the same comfort level and amenities.  The seats were rock hard and did not recline.  There was minimal service and few food options.  But airlines, especially on shorter flights now compete based on price and not comfort.  The flight got safely from A to B, the price was cheap, even after paying for luggage separately, and we got to the destination on time.  The emotional scars of the flight were quickly erased as we got on with the remainder of our trip. Unless you fly Emirates first class and have a birth and shower those days of Golden Age flight passed with the Hindenburg.

But if it is safety you want above all else, fly in Australia and New Zealand. Quantas has never had an accident in the jet age!  Stay away from most African airlines, Indonesia and parts of China.

Recently, I flew to Vancouver on West Jet.  I enjoy their friendly banter and their sense of humour, most airlines can’t pull that off as effectively.  But they too, as most airlines, are going with automatic check ins, paid luggage, and few food options. I discovered for the first time wifi has replaced the inflight screens.  There were no fall down screens from the ceiling or on the back of seats.  I like following the course of the flight watching the giant icon of a plane over the miniature map of Canada to figure out, within 500 km, of my location.

I was suppose to download an APP for the Wifi so that I could use my own devise, which was a four inch smart phone, or I could rent a device with a larger screen for $7.99.  I slept, ate the pretzels and read my book.  I watched the damn clouds.

Perhaps, appetizing menus are not that meaningful any more when you consider that our taste buds betray us above 30 000 feet.  We no longer really taste food properly.  I have no idea what trauma the astronauts must go through in their diets, or for that matter life on the space station must be pretty grim from a culinary stand point.

The trend is less service from check in to landing.  I hope to hell that Vancouver flight was not on auto pilot, but if Google has anything to do with future aviation travel the planes will be flying themselves, there won’t be any people around, robots will show us how to buckle the seat belts.