tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-350019252024-03-13T11:29:37.647-07:00from dakini valleya beautiful, magical, powerful place of retreat, practice and mindfulness training.kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.comBlogger71125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-32821266639039117922009-04-09T21:19:00.000-07:002009-04-15T17:47:52.998-07:00what's in a name?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKarzRgbXGJNr_Cmbp2Yg6mQZ8IeYQE7HahvttHaN8i84z_uY2-Vit24KdZVanrVYY-cgoaz82KGcmT09cfDTafFNcV-fSEIkZU35hD4T5IKCe8l9dMdSXDtAKxKA-2SsCc5c6/s1600-h/kunzang-drolma.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKarzRgbXGJNr_Cmbp2Yg6mQZ8IeYQE7HahvttHaN8i84z_uY2-Vit24KdZVanrVYY-cgoaz82KGcmT09cfDTafFNcV-fSEIkZU35hD4T5IKCe8l9dMdSXDtAKxKA-2SsCc5c6/s400/kunzang-drolma.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322916884730161298" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />My name requires a lot of spelling aloud, multiple times. Often, on the phone, there is first a pause, and then </span><em style="font-family: georgia;" face="arial">"Could you spell that?"</em><span style="font-family:georgia;"> Not once, but two or three times. It is understandable; it is not a familiar name here in the west. </span> <p style="font-family: georgia;" face="trebuchet ms"> It is not the name of my birth; my Australian parents had more conventional taste. I received this name when I was ordained as a nun, and chose to legally change it to my one and only name. Not all ordained western Buddhists choose to do that, they often retain their birth name for legal or business purposes, and go by their ordained name at the Temple or perhaps more generally. This seemed too complicated to me: 2 names on my voicemail, people knowing me in one guise and not the other. Driver's license, passport holding a name I no longer relate to. Buddhism is a method to cut through dualistic thinking - I certainly didn't want to be dealing with two different 'me's. Of course, for old friends who feel uncomfortable with the transition, or perhaps have not yet met me as a nun, I am happy to go by the old nomenclatures. Although, to be honest, I no longer have the same sense of belonging to that name or nicknames. I am someone else.</p> <p style="font-family: georgia;">Today I accidentally found a girl in Tibet with my name. <a target="_blank" class="ext" href="http://jorufoundation.org/">A site</a><a target="_blank" class="ext" href="http://jorufoundation.org/"> </a>with grade after grade of school children, photographed on a magnificent, treeless plateau, each with names that have in the last decade become familiar to me. And one with my name, an orphan, 12 years old.</p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" face="trebuchet ms">I looked at her unsmiling face, the blue jeans and sweat shirt a contrast to the traditional garment on top. How disparate our live are, how little our experiences will have had in common. And yet we share a name that for her is traditional, and for me is a constant source of explanation. We are joined, in a sense, by a short string of letters that has crossed a cultural divide.</p> <p style="font-family: georgia;">I was compelled to sponsor her. To offer some of the benefits I have accrued with a family and education and life without true lack, despite my sometime complaints. The landscape she stands in is extraordinarily powerful, its vastness touched my heart, even in that solitary snapshot. A hard place to live, I imagine.</p> <span style="font-family:georgia;">So Kunzang Drolma and I have connected, even if only in a peripheral way. Yet cause and effect will always play out, and somehow this moment is a resolution of the past and a forecast of the future. I have no idea what that will be, I am simply grateful to have the chance to offer her a little something, and hopefully make a difference in her life.</span>kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-52959809864878860822009-03-28T11:15:00.000-07:002009-03-28T11:32:55.958-07:00a great Teacher has passed from the world<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk4k4nxeVPG7-HgH7Fru_YHu3n8Bniqgh_Y_i2RLF_O_4-nSp1JORDWqTtZjiyHzHayhQEDfXB7kU9GHMG6Ox5hDH9uurZgcFJ1liKm7HrtdMiEZTi_TrefGPCjp6lJfJpuCez/s1600-h/hhpr_lhasa.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 341px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk4k4nxeVPG7-HgH7Fru_YHu3n8Bniqgh_Y_i2RLF_O_4-nSp1JORDWqTtZjiyHzHayhQEDfXB7kU9GHMG6Ox5hDH9uurZgcFJ1liKm7HrtdMiEZTi_TrefGPCjp6lJfJpuCez/s400/hhpr_lhasa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318305415434007874" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">His Holiness Penor Rinpoche in Lhasa</span></span><br /></div><br /><br />When I awoke yesterday morning, although I did not know it, my world had changed. Across the ocean, in southern India, the great Lama who had with great kindness guided countless people on a pure, unbroken path of Buddhism, had passed away.<br /><br />His Holiness Penor Rinpoche was probably not as well known a public figure as HH the Dalai Lama, yet he, too, had escaped the terror of the Chinese Invasion, fleeing over the mountains with 300 followers; only 31 survived the treacherous journey and attacks by the Chinese. His Holiness has been recognised as a living Buddha, and was considered one of the foremost masters of Tibetan Buddhism; stories of miraculous events even as he was 3 years old have been recorded.<br /><br />He was the 11th Throneholder of the <a href="http://www.palyul.org/">Palyul lineage</a>, in the Nyingma School, the first school of Buddhism established in Tibet, in the 8th Century. He had also been Supreme Head of the Nyingma School, one of the four major schools of Tibetan Buddhism.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn5_NVL87JdDBIouwsA6m8kO-5kcUPQxqLF9LCCYLVUrzbYPDGg0Wj0Ctrtzl8QPYmzx_h6GVPcAFBOno5K1FEL7wnIptq1VsTYnC9MFOnBwGtnKHPieKhpqub3Bexk3BRXsAk/s1600-h/MT-42-HHPR-with-crown-color.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn5_NVL87JdDBIouwsA6m8kO-5kcUPQxqLF9LCCYLVUrzbYPDGg0Wj0Ctrtzl8QPYmzx_h6GVPcAFBOno5K1FEL7wnIptq1VsTYnC9MFOnBwGtnKHPieKhpqub3Bexk3BRXsAk/s400/MT-42-HHPR-with-crown-color.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318305424666681570" border="0" /></a><br />Although he was a living Buddha, who was accomplished in every way, His Holiness was not a distant or theoretical teacher, he lived fully a life of active compassion, working tirelessly to help others. He was out digging latrines with a shovel as the monastery in southern India was being built. He worked side by side with his monks, whatever was needed, to bring to life what has been left behind in Tibet: a foundation from which the Dharma could flourish and spread.<br /><br />His Holiness was, in a sense, my spiritual father; I received ordination vows with him at his upstate NY retreat Centre in 2000. I have been extraordinarily fortunate to have received many teachings and empowerments from him, and to have had the opportunity, while at retreat, to sit at his feet and receive brief instructions. His door and heart were always open.<br /><br />Many Tibetans now in the USA also go to retreat, and through their eyes I experienced the depth of who he was. Devotion is a little foreign to us in the west, but a seamless part of other cultures. When I saw his monks or lay Tibetans watching or waiting for or even glimpsing him, I saw a deep and certain, unshakable love and respect, that was not blind faith, but rich and broad and based on a connection of one heart to the next, a language of hope and family and compassion.<br /><br />Over time I had seen his health deteriorate, but not his dedication. For some years he had experienced great pain on walking, and always needed assistance on either side; he would grimace at times with pain, but still he came for us, to us, because until his breath stopped, he did not give up his commitment to make the world a kinder, more compassionate and less judgmental place. To share his boundless wisdom with words that met our minds.<br /><br />At retreat a couple of years ago, at almost every morning teaching for a month, he reminded us to <span style="font-style: italic;">"have no doubt"</span>. Again and again he said that, earnestly, trying to share with us the potency of what he had to offer : the lesson that all of us can share, whether Buddhist, or Christian or of any faith or none. That we each have the power to change ourselves and the world. To be kind and compassionate, to care for the welfare of others, to not turn our backs or close our hearts or be judgmental. To know the courage of loving - kindness will transform.<br /><br />His Holiness has passed from this world, and hearts are grieving on every continent. Yet he has not left or abandoned us. His presence, his legacy, are these qualities sown in countless hearts, from babies to the very old. I have no doubt that his commitment and strength and vision will continue on until suffering in every form has ceased.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSqnfVHh0QlH_iI4BII7TQ29V-qL8fJkcezFicUdsbH0VBVRDAoQRcztK_AKSdyafnfFoZtcIKfK0nwVmdEGPxl_vsDUoD_nly4r47a4LHlQqgmos87nU7mTH5XybHw9Ra5UBr/s1600-h/candle_eleph2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 120px; height: 106px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSqnfVHh0QlH_iI4BII7TQ29V-qL8fJkcezFicUdsbH0VBVRDAoQRcztK_AKSdyafnfFoZtcIKfK0nwVmdEGPxl_vsDUoD_nly4r47a4LHlQqgmos87nU7mTH5XybHw9Ra5UBr/s400/candle_eleph2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318306526326086386" border="0" /></a>kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-9540909312480901392009-03-22T14:44:00.000-07:002009-03-22T16:09:47.415-07:00radical acceptance<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizDGD9Vu4Lj2lXWcQKPmDlAqPKPGapni_DhHE_KbMmUI5MfuCeN0GodS3OhnJwkf20e1CSXxa450D3XMn22SWNLCUiuNVIjj28SYnGMu9NVTfbq82WCxUSjLI6a90JIXwNsnFa/s1600-h/berlin+friends1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 273px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizDGD9Vu4Lj2lXWcQKPmDlAqPKPGapni_DhHE_KbMmUI5MfuCeN0GodS3OhnJwkf20e1CSXxa450D3XMn22SWNLCUiuNVIjj28SYnGMu9NVTfbq82WCxUSjLI6a90JIXwNsnFa/s400/berlin+friends1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316131350339560194" border="0" /></a><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta 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mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:100%;" >Friendship eludes simple definition, and yet impacts on every life in some way. Having, or not having, friends can shape our experiences, our expectations, whether life seems good or bad. Facebook and other social network sites have re-defined what friendship is; people who have – will never – meet or probably even communicate are termed as ‘friends’.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:100%;" >Friendship has always had the potential to ignore boundaries.<span style=""> </span>The pen-friendships of my youth, with someone of like age in a far-away place, had a tinge of magic, of something rare and exotic, as photographs and words were exchanged with a tantalizing lapse in time. If English was the second language of the pen-friend, there was added excitement. But when there was little in common the friendship petered out. My short lived foray was with a boy in Sweden; the one sentence that has stuck in my mind from that ill-fated match was <i style="">“I like swimming, girls and cars”</i>, which was the beginning of the end.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:100%;" >The photo is a moment in Berlin, in summer, when the wall still stood as a reminder of the potency of hatred and war. Our lives intersected for varying times, and then we moved on. We each were born in a different land, and our native languages were varied: German, French, English. But for that space of time – perhaps just that day - we were friends, sharing laughter and silly times. Two of these women drifted out of my life, the other remains a friend in my heart, although communication is now rare.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:100%;" >Two days ago I re-connected with another old friend, who in fact, in a different time and place, also shared a friendship with me and someone in this photo; friendships collide and shift, re-forming the landscape of life.<span style=""> </span>I had googled, then emailed, my friend, and within minutes she had responded, bringing great joy. It has been more than two decades since we have spoken with or seen each other. Many years, through which we each have lived and laughed and grieved; grown older, perhaps wiser. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:100%;" >My memory of her contains sharp snapshots of moments; she worked in a bookstore, I for the government, and we would meet some days in the city. She played violin with grace and inspiration, an instrument the sound of which I have always loved. I remember one day we piled into cars – a group of women, sunburned with summer, some of us hungover – and <span style=""> </span>drove from the city, weaving on narrow roads through bushland, to an old dam in the midst of forest. We picnicked and played and swam and took photos. It was a day of laughter and friendship.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:100%;" >Now I write this, I think – was she there…I am sure – yet memory also reduces the past to a pastiche of what we perhaps imagined to be true. But I will place her there, for if she was not, she could well have been. <span style=""> </span>No, I am sure she was, wearing black bathers like everyone else. <span style=""> </span>It was days such as this that we knew together. <span style=""> </span>For a while she lived in the house I shared with my partner and our several cats. Life had its ups and downs, but we were buoyant with youth and the <span style=""> </span>potency of dreams.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:100%;" >My friend now lives in a nearby state, only a road drive away. The twenty year absence I hope one day will be resolved with a very short journey. Her life, she explained, contains much joy and pleasure, although she now lives with illness and pain that cuts very deep, and leaves her in bed many days.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:100%;" >She spoke of radical acceptance of her pain, as part of the life she is journeying on. This expression touched me deeply, and lead to contemplation about the capacity to radically accept where we are in our lives, and allow that – even if hardship – to form a foundation for movement, for growth, and even for joy.<span style=""> </span>Her words were not heavy with suffering, in fact they sparkled, vibrant, suffused with an eagerness for life and the happiness it can bring. <span style=""> </span>Her letter made me smile and rejoice, and imagine her in her beautiful, abundant garden, a reflection of inner qualities she has chosen to nurture – that of growth and love and an open mind.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:100%;" >Today’s <span style=""> </span>Rigpa glimpse of the day echoed her words:<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i style=""><span style="line-height: 115%;">“The practice of mindfulness defuses our negativity, aggression, and turbulent emotions, which may have been gathering power over many lifetimes. Rather than suppressing emotions or indulging in them, here it is important to view them—your thoughts and whatever arises—with an acceptance and generosity that are as open and spacious as possible. Tibetan masters say that this wise generosity has the flavor of boundless space, so warm and cozy that you feel enveloped and protected by it, as if by a blanket of sunlight.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></p> <p style="font-family: times new roman;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-size:100%;" >Radical acceptance can be challenging, although my life contains no such extreme suffering as my friend’s. More often resistance, even to that which is known to be true, and needs to be accepted, leads to internal tension and anguish. What if each task, each experience, every shifting emotion was embraced fully with an open heart, with generosity : what a different world to experience! <span style=""> </span>One of transformation, where dark becomes light, where flowers blossom in abundance, where deep happiness prevails. Where movement and growth, compassion and wisdom, are inevitable.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: times new roman;font-family:";font-size:100%;" >After more than 20 years, and without having even seen me, my friend unwittingly gave me a gift. Words can be harsh or gentle, they link us together in anger or in love. They are the foundation of friendship. The links of continuity that defy time and space. When she wrote of radical acceptance, she opened my heart a fraction more, to a possibility of living life so that the full richness of potential is not lost, but enjoyed. </span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:georgia;font-size:12;" ></span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12;" ><o:p></o:p></span></p> kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-75081314549252728642009-03-16T13:30:00.000-07:002009-03-16T13:42:55.208-07:00Perfect Teachers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZfm9ptDn47lE2DUCuGPbyHFQSSUo8yTiJCI5bzI9R5z-9D1umfNlnQ5U9aB7VLo-6_BCNzGd_sPo7H3taZFsJiXc7h-Co22_ixVL8y7g-g-KQjoabq1yzHhX88BYTZsfW9zdi/s1600-h/HH+Dudjom+Rinpoche.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 281px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZfm9ptDn47lE2DUCuGPbyHFQSSUo8yTiJCI5bzI9R5z-9D1umfNlnQ5U9aB7VLo-6_BCNzGd_sPo7H3taZFsJiXc7h-Co22_ixVL8y7g-g-KQjoabq1yzHhX88BYTZsfW9zdi/s400/HH+Dudjom+Rinpoche.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313886044685453186" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">His Holiness <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Dudjom</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Rinpoche</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div>His Holiness has passed from this life in this form, our paths never crossed. Yet his presence has drifted through my life, the gentle whispering of a breeze that has no form.<br />On seeing this photo, I stopped, momentarily pulled from ceaseless thoughts. There is a welcoming gentleness there, a beauty that is beyond physical. As if love has no boundaries of time or space, of now or then, of photo and real life. It is a simple presence that can echo in our hearts - does echo in our hearts - at any time. In every moment. The perfection of his gift will never cease.kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-9743462432694737002009-03-11T15:12:00.000-07:002009-03-11T15:51:15.190-07:00a good day to smile<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisqndRucRvKUzLsIFoKxOV3dNPsGUej3mab2cg4isoszJwCEbjbQd5D3-I_Sfoc2GP8Cs_2P995SlqRjJdEMFMaThfS6Iml95vjTJ0L2qeLxmCNvuYu4hZz82cGldSGzEevcxg/s1600-h/HH.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisqndRucRvKUzLsIFoKxOV3dNPsGUej3mab2cg4isoszJwCEbjbQd5D3-I_Sfoc2GP8Cs_2P995SlqRjJdEMFMaThfS6Iml95vjTJ0L2qeLxmCNvuYu4hZz82cGldSGzEevcxg/s400/HH.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312057496449023666" /></a><br /><br />Words and thoughts for a post buffet around in my mind a lot. Mostly discarded, because time flows and relevance shifts. My littlest dog, Maddie, I think has her eyes set on a post. She has already sent a message to my friend Rabden via chat (yes, really!), and googled for something. I came back to the desk and found the screen open at search results for some obscure medical thing. I guess it wasn't what she was looking for, as she had already departed the keyboard. So maybe she is working up to a tantalising post.<br />What I will say is that today - a blustery, sunny, wild sort of day at Dakini Valley - is a great day to share words of kindness and support, to be generous and openhearted. To do something that will bring a smile to someone else. To feed the wild birds. To just be be the sort of person we all hope to have around us when things are rough and tough in our lives.<br />Today is a holy Buddhist day, a day to be mindful of the gifts we have to offer - the positive ones of compassion and basic goodness. I have been fortunate to learn so much about making choices that bring benefit - to myself, to others, to the animals, to the world. I don't always make the right choices, of course, but I know where to turn if things get in disarray: to my teacher, my Lineage and to the incomparable example of the head of our Lineage, HH Penor Rinpoche.<br />I have had the good fortune to attend HH summer retreats for 6 years, beginning in 1999, when I was so green around the edges (a brand new Buddhist), it makes me both cringe and laugh. <br />Like everything else, my retreat path has not been linear. I did year 2 three times, for example. And the experience each summer is vastly different than the one before. But what has been consistent and unquestionable has been the unwavering kindness and dedication of His Holiness to each and every student. His teachings, his presence are the purest essence of wisdom and compassion, and if you listen with an open receptive heart you cannot fail to change and blossom. <br />Over the years I have witnessed his health vary, but never ever, not for one second, did that impact upon his commitment to uphold the pristine teachings of the Buddha, and to offer them to us in ways we can receive, and live. That is why he is there for us, every single one of us - even when he has been in pain, he has never let us down.<br />What a gift he gives, and that is the gift we can share with each other. Kindness, graciousness, no judgment and blame. A wide open heart that embraces everyone and every being without distinction. Such a simple thing, in this complex world, and yet one available to everyone, wherever, whomever we are. That is its perfection.kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-34705188301283155182009-01-19T12:39:00.000-08:002009-01-23T19:18:09.970-08:00absence and longing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaLoIM8ldDjB7UZ4SkNSst5dEjw48iVwXItcCRmb0g5FQylKooOvj6mPjkgbcTrvoznyBADZ97wbUQyeTbynOL1rqv1BOipyTlXvrjvI6tZrIq0rhI9KlNxTPFOK5D2T_c0ONl/s1600-h/family+in+1959.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaLoIM8ldDjB7UZ4SkNSst5dEjw48iVwXItcCRmb0g5FQylKooOvj6mPjkgbcTrvoznyBADZ97wbUQyeTbynOL1rqv1BOipyTlXvrjvI6tZrIq0rhI9KlNxTPFOK5D2T_c0ONl/s320/family+in+1959.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294676282847295266" border="0" /></a>
<br /><div style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">This is my first </span></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >memory</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">: a photo not of me. It was taken by a newspaper photographer when I was 31/2 years old. My absence is branded in my heart. The occasion was my father's swearing in as a judge to a labour court, with a fancy name: The Conciliation and Arbitration Commission. My father later became President of this court, and remained there until retirement at age 70. He was involved in and presided over cases of great significance to Australian history, such as equal pay for women; he was known for a period as "the hippie judge" because he wore bright ties and his hair touched his collar. He was knighted for his contribution to society, was often featured in the newspaper and made the front page of The Bulletin magazine in the 1970's.</span></span>
<br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">In 1959, when he was appointed to the court, it was considered inappropriate to have a 3 year old child in the court room during the hearing; I might have made a fuss. Instead, I am told, I remained outside, cared for by the driver of my father's official vehicle. This is erased from my memory. What is startlingly clear, however, is the recollection of the newspaper feature the next day, this photo of happy family smiling from the page. Although details are lost, the memory of exclusion is vivid: this is my family, but I am not there. Amazing to me that such a momentary event - one photo - could have left such an imprint on a very small child. </span></span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Longing to be loved, feel secure and cherished is something familiar to many of us. We search for people, places, states of mind in which to feel held, happy. And sometimes we do lead lives of contentment and love, at least for a time. But even within that life, we may know moments of longing for something more, undefined.</span> </div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >The first essay I had published was titled "the hollow inside"; it explored my topsy turvy desire to have a child, to satiate a longing for love. In the essay, the perspective was that the longing was in fact not for a child, but caused by a perceived hollow inside that could be filled instead by some deep innate strength or knowing. Ironically, some years later I truly did yearn for a child, and spent years on a fertility program, living and re-living every month the painful loss of a child never borne. Tears and great anguish marked the moment that dream was finally relinquished and allowed to dissipate forever.</span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br />Jetsunma<span style="font-family:georgia;"> has spoken so beautifully and </span>eloquently<span style="font-family:georgia;"> about this longing:</span></span></span>
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mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >
<br />You were born with the longing to awaken. You were born with a longing to know your own nature, to taste that nature. You were born with a longing and a homing instinct to find your Teacher. You were born with a longing to find a pure path, and there were no words like that when you grew up. </span>
<br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:georgia;"><span style=""><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >
<br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">This longing is the call of our heart, our primordial nature, to awaken to that which we truly are. But we have forgotten the language, we do not recognise its echo in our lives, and so we interpret that longing, that hollow, in different ways. Sometimes causing ourselves even greater pain, as we search for happiness in all the wrong places, or numb ourselves with transitory pleasure.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">That great compassion is never absent, it cannot be. It pervades every breath, every blink of our eye, every moment. We may look at the snapshots of our lives and imagine something is missing, but if we open our minds and turn just a fraction, we can glimpse the truth for which we have unknowingly be searching. And if we recognise our Teacher and surrender to that truth, the potential is even more potent.</span>
<br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Things are not the same as in 1959. </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Some years ago, my brother was sworn in as a judge to a labour court, I think one which replaced my father's court. His second son was also very young, just as I had been, but he was allowed to attend the ceremony. When he saw my brother on the bench, I am told, he cried out with joy, "That's my daddy!" Far from expressing displeasure, people smiled at the happiness and pride of a small child for his father.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;font-family:georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Each and every one of us will lead lives filled with landmarks, seared into our memory. Some painful, others a reflection of great joy. But hidden within all of these - good and bad - is always that longing, that echo, that possibility to know the vastness of compassion alive in our hearts. And when we do awaken, we will surely recognise that the longing and absence were simply mistaken views of a photograph of something we held to be true, but which never was.</span>
<br /></span></span></span></p></div>kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-38561338826905646652008-12-25T14:17:00.000-08:002008-12-25T15:33:25.231-08:00birthday greetings<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7y99yWqJl2Zl02OiDiid2e9RR_a2t9HAJ3AaY1tXMbDw6jLrvGnSWNkDRUFihfJfGp7xsF6wvUgsOaqtrZ2NYbEenCkkBSQlWaF9-JLbVPfRIXS_3iao8etI2PhBqy3VdGVy-/s1600-h/2+weeks+old+with+Kate.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283861738364235874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 313px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7y99yWqJl2Zl02OiDiid2e9RR_a2t9HAJ3AaY1tXMbDw6jLrvGnSWNkDRUFihfJfGp7xsF6wvUgsOaqtrZ2NYbEenCkkBSQlWaF9-JLbVPfRIXS_3iao8etI2PhBqy3VdGVy-/s320/2+weeks+old+with+Kate.JPG" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> <em>at two weeks old</em></span><br /><br /><br /><div align="justify">Birthdays are a strange phenomenon. They imply great significance, for it is the time when each of us hurtled into this human life, on a journey whose real beginnings none of us understand, and for which we often feel ill- equipped to undertake. </div><br /><div align="justify"><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283865037637972226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 227px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDC6OHzq-LK7O7QQwtHIoBJgUpdx8bMWjzFJHH_af3wUQFlu0nmMxFSMKHrbGaGRe80ebcvocm-dDeb5iN_AWbsK2vWYBgYERrhyphenhyphenIAU4B4fHBPLsrbUxfNtg_XbXbNIq-w1FVk/s320/kates+4+birthday.JPG" border="0" /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">My sister Kate's 4th birthday</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em><br /><br /><br /><div align="justify">The first few years of our lives, birthdays are more for the family surrounding us than for ourselves, we really don't know what its about. A home video of me on my first birthday shows me tearing paper off a gift, without any understanding that this was a process leading to a surprise; the paper tearing was clearly exciting enough!</div><br /><br /><p align="center"><br /></p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283865043231517138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 307px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrIHh1r6nEbC4e7WhP_ObtydYORRsUbUZnAj0po0tK12VjLYnOkb0SPF3SnNuorilrOm5syuXNJMnEijZ-4MFZ4M_7E8v8RWWdqtxRiF5nHEbvr1TRU6teZKvD5suO7kM4en6h/s320/mum+and+me.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">With my mother getting ready for my party </span></em><br /></p><br /><div align="left">But somewhere in those early years, the magic and pleasure of birthdays seeps in. The specialness, the celebration and excitement. Birthdays are anticipated with excitement and joy, perhaps parties are planned, gifts secreted away from inquisitive eyes. Cake and candles mark the transition of time.<br /></div><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283865046376599938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 274px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivoJfwO0AzLZ736GxUNpYtIEwIuV6UOC3ZcxGTBV5J43h2NXwnls7HujYvhVomOpa-A1TVJ5QPyu33B-1a3WrQSzWEvrVY__pocg1JnoqCauoZwFZZRl9ZBu8RIZQvtl5ASCev/s320/dad+and+me.JPG" border="0" /> <em><span style="font-size:85%;">with my father, same day</span></em><br /><br /><div align="justify">Further on in our lives, particular birthdays are seen as culturally significant. 18, 21, 30, 40 - these are years where, even if in between there has been little acknowledgement of the date of birth, people will often celebrate the passage of life. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">Personally, i have mostly been ambivalent if not cautious about birthdays. Born on Christmas Eve, my special day was buried in the furore and excitement of Santa Claus' visit, and summer holidays. For this reason, my mother chose my great-grandmother's birthday (August 16) as my day of celebration and parties. But even that was more for her gregarious nature than my painfully shy one. I remember so clearly one particular party where I played in the yard on my own for most of the time, feeling overwhelmed by the group. And cutting the cake was a nightmare of spotlight exposure. </div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283870136705673330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 265px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Ta8XftHu3cZPRxRdKAvh0mC63Yc7mh9rSNc0lPhtlvZbUjPBGcKoEwlo5mQ9pfoZDyy9qeLww_zrUH7iNuBJsvOkaG9lijjy0Un1pL69KOfCbVSNGhzlmdGIZoOjcFg9txvD/s320/picking+flowers.JPG" border="0" /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">picking flowers in our garden on my birthday</span></em><br /><br /><div align="justify">My mother wanted me to have a big "Twenty First" as my siblings had had (a significant rite of passage in Australia). I refused, mainly because I was quite rebellious at that time, and refusing any request of my parents was the order of the day. As I have mellowed with age, I am sorry I was not gracious enough to allow her this joy.</div><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283870126274123394" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 307px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTNX-l_-d9wHg-CvOYmkJ4GNdvv79XVbyw8W3vZUQZd5fyTk33qzFtLFAcIM7tnEUp3QlZjXnn_h6fIr76FUzeedY41r4RdPMcreFosmpd9VScPazDgnLOAwmieNfVa3sjPVlZ/s320/in+the+yard+-party.JPG" border="0" /></div><div align="center"> </div><div align="justify">Now, having freshly 'turned' 53, birthdays have no great impact. Yet still they mark the passage of time in this life, and of that I am conscious. There is less time ahead than behind. Just as at the moment of birth, I am still uncertain of what this journey will bring or entail. </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283870130372849682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 306px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ7llVELoeO1s4BgxeqABHNvNSXxsDml4h0SxQZ9wdtc-l1S_DYkQzsfXbxiZhBQMFxkFNnUwtQxdrw5ZT1IEpiGjVPme9LMnFucS6_R2y_AR3R_KuGnGIPlZ_DYPMk8JMaGWM/s320/at+2+weeks+old.JPG" border="0" /></div></div><p align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">2 weeks of age. My mother has written on the back "looks very like her". Funny, really, to think there was an idea of me even having an identity or look at that age. Looks like who? </span></em></p><p align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Not me, not any more!</span></em></p><p align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em></p><p align="center"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em></p>kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-79434944692651731642008-12-17T19:42:00.000-08:002008-12-17T20:46:01.779-08:00Family Snaps<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-bACL9aDJodAEj8NMrGDJsZEHoLO8taRqPolVxaO8ZCA-g_mUh_fttYHYZOpN5uSt7lFwp1rHaja8thP2m2OL8G0qjhGQWLQgyKaCZrNl5gmkfaGyP4kQrJyduLglsnzDP3EV/s1600-h/log+cabin+side,+rainy+day.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-bACL9aDJodAEj8NMrGDJsZEHoLO8taRqPolVxaO8ZCA-g_mUh_fttYHYZOpN5uSt7lFwp1rHaja8thP2m2OL8G0qjhGQWLQgyKaCZrNl5gmkfaGyP4kQrJyduLglsnzDP3EV/s320/log+cabin+side,+rainy+day.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280982333650046546" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheRtRbJ0CheHzWjJPDI9dcGwbPiyJ00XqfgE6hA4catEN4cUePMFLgd212BNH85ItMrm_2bvHPfHTosHBnqowK3KfiCIzbAK7MQn9HD0VTljjkqTtKWkXz2x095DKo6uMI_hX-/s1600-h/zeusie,+miles+and+nyimas+in+the+yard.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheRtRbJ0CheHzWjJPDI9dcGwbPiyJ00XqfgE6hA4catEN4cUePMFLgd212BNH85ItMrm_2bvHPfHTosHBnqowK3KfiCIzbAK7MQn9HD0VTljjkqTtKWkXz2x095DKo6uMI_hX-/s320/zeusie,+miles+and+nyimas+in+the+yard.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280974911012844642" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAi4q2ZUO3XFedm4hT3-PzHkLEzgqVkoZx9KVCq1_HNU7kC4sFUKTnUeYixkCb-a9Rkz0-yYYJHLHV7MHWdd_RM_gw3zgwvKz7ynRsg7_5gmvoMujTz7i-OxCBZE0qGJXzDbcs/s1600-h/wildfire+and+lucky.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAi4q2ZUO3XFedm4hT3-PzHkLEzgqVkoZx9KVCq1_HNU7kC4sFUKTnUeYixkCb-a9Rkz0-yYYJHLHV7MHWdd_RM_gw3zgwvKz7ynRsg7_5gmvoMujTz7i-OxCBZE0qGJXzDbcs/s320/wildfire+and+lucky.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280986312108102386" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGq5q7YlQOJqymtMeNc7t1jbip43YDdV4L83q5CmdnrJvkQovDJ3z0cDmw2jvy6kp6-OD1P15e_ZiaRxqFXSqbTHlLYp5qMBkK1eLXLbp5nrSQuYgV5pwRPzbolCFL1hFayDv8/s1600-h/milo+an+dlucky+hope+for+a+treat.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGq5q7YlQOJqymtMeNc7t1jbip43YDdV4L83q5CmdnrJvkQovDJ3z0cDmw2jvy6kp6-OD1P15e_ZiaRxqFXSqbTHlLYp5qMBkK1eLXLbp5nrSQuYgV5pwRPzbolCFL1hFayDv8/s320/milo+an+dlucky+hope+for+a+treat.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280974113826267762" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgms6FOYuVbBed2EZ7muF_jFbqss-BxwFqURiJy4teVNaLcjM0XNLbmMU-ftp6_Cs2-VoDi5w4_lOi1oBc9ByI9Fo1S4Eia9ZZ41v1QgJyYkXUvRlyJqhvPaP_Q5SNL74Ghyyp1/s1600-h/nyima+waits+4+a+treat.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgms6FOYuVbBed2EZ7muF_jFbqss-BxwFqURiJy4teVNaLcjM0XNLbmMU-ftp6_Cs2-VoDi5w4_lOi1oBc9ByI9Fo1S4Eia9ZZ41v1QgJyYkXUvRlyJqhvPaP_Q5SNL74Ghyyp1/s320/nyima+waits+4+a+treat.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280974110642992722" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTwOjaCsB42LME8gKMLCnKXQ4dg-Zrix79zsDXm51ypHkpCv6Xq7ugG6sz6afhJpVP8wD2y7_6Q9GCToqvP3vW7uN1lCgWnJfp2pRjYkmqGxAXHhm1IjF42Wu3jUoNpn8HsxcJ/s1600-h/gypsy+on+the+bed.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTwOjaCsB42LME8gKMLCnKXQ4dg-Zrix79zsDXm51ypHkpCv6Xq7ugG6sz6afhJpVP8wD2y7_6Q9GCToqvP3vW7uN1lCgWnJfp2pRjYkmqGxAXHhm1IjF42Wu3jUoNpn8HsxcJ/s320/gypsy+on+the+bed.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280974106885432882" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhXFqaQwjMh7rRZriVxfNoM63Js5GvVtOs8nBxmPaMOglVmmDChKXq6dW-GERhRWtUDR8cznQLfv6swFlPxqs8rJpmXowiQ3YDWrxusOMlo-uf_gEb4DqzeYn1E6zXGZL-e6gF/s1600-h/mads+and+lucky.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhXFqaQwjMh7rRZriVxfNoM63Js5GvVtOs8nBxmPaMOglVmmDChKXq6dW-GERhRWtUDR8cznQLfv6swFlPxqs8rJpmXowiQ3YDWrxusOMlo-uf_gEb4DqzeYn1E6zXGZL-e6gF/s320/mads+and+lucky.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280980534326693122" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhauXi0rsVPOJnYCv2j5yZBd-HbiTdqLBz5bhwAvgjk6PKG6s9KsURXiDsjIERRLj6RyVY72C49kJq3MnxwzDE71tslhY35gucs_wwOp5jwqiyYr_k36bHueqzu8bum946_YSkU/s1600-h/handful+of+dogs.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhauXi0rsVPOJnYCv2j5yZBd-HbiTdqLBz5bhwAvgjk6PKG6s9KsURXiDsjIERRLj6RyVY72C49kJq3MnxwzDE71tslhY35gucs_wwOp5jwqiyYr_k36bHueqzu8bum946_YSkU/s320/handful+of+dogs.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280974106875608978" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrglWfTDmeAvrZOKk5UezIo13oNpzIuWPta0wKz1YPh3GVl_ZAYCHHnG507zfs5SYhq0MxNwE9x8NkcyFi5Gv-f37bELnB4JtSMV8Za6vLb3ZY1U46gFKGX86h4A0nq0QYhfOA/s1600-h/zeusie+on+teh+chair.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrglWfTDmeAvrZOKk5UezIo13oNpzIuWPta0wKz1YPh3GVl_ZAYCHHnG507zfs5SYhq0MxNwE9x8NkcyFi5Gv-f37bELnB4JtSMV8Za6vLb3ZY1U46gFKGX86h4A0nq0QYhfOA/s320/zeusie+on+teh+chair.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280972802893259234" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQtq9in37G9ok8vw1n97dsGPdHMieRWeJkhRAgr6w93IhCdmAEWuYmcKUE2xtlQxZU9uIOxdmMZGCIMlD5gB4qulmrSVX1J38cTZXoErcAarDb3oEtpLTE2C1LB5egFfVFrGW4/s1600-h/milo+lucky+wildf.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQtq9in37G9ok8vw1n97dsGPdHMieRWeJkhRAgr6w93IhCdmAEWuYmcKUE2xtlQxZU9uIOxdmMZGCIMlD5gB4qulmrSVX1J38cTZXoErcAarDb3oEtpLTE2C1LB5egFfVFrGW4/s320/milo+lucky+wildf.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280972796517207170" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipUO5XMKNO_ag5nFKf5m3NSdqnhZjREa5YTqMdFTsfFCX1Xz5CiCwXvvLM2s4p8jZ9yG0Cn249-2_Z1QUDa7HiTpb5dnv9JqBYhkwtt8YrFvoTm93S501YYndtZEk5h-XjYd8T/s1600-h/lucky+sits+by+the+chair.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipUO5XMKNO_ag5nFKf5m3NSdqnhZjREa5YTqMdFTsfFCX1Xz5CiCwXvvLM2s4p8jZ9yG0Cn249-2_Z1QUDa7HiTpb5dnv9JqBYhkwtt8YrFvoTm93S501YYndtZEk5h-XjYd8T/s320/lucky+sits+by+the+chair.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280972786192180994" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgywc6cmj648j2yqN4_k4WqMpoyEToDFIG8NH39F_l4YBADuuh-wM0SBZOCaRUxWS4-cBCbjOqr-_4K9deAJab7jEj_7i9yOWGUkCVbZS90qBAY9Y-s8557cwAap0f3-yeLQQPz/s1600-h/lucky+and+zeusie.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgywc6cmj648j2yqN4_k4WqMpoyEToDFIG8NH39F_l4YBADuuh-wM0SBZOCaRUxWS4-cBCbjOqr-_4K9deAJab7jEj_7i9yOWGUkCVbZS90qBAY9Y-s8557cwAap0f3-yeLQQPz/s320/lucky+and+zeusie.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280972781874459426" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfXN0U-8IEC69EseSly4yiOiymIiKkOQ4U0Y24hCXqKOcSU94Lr02rogqO-g8S9bw-MerbLr1lcYOxZjNBuRXjM9R-_Wyh786VgZgrRLrKhFY8vsTUi2PWT7JuHn1N1IaYdvc5/s1600-h/Lucky+and+Maddie+hope+for+a+treat.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfXN0U-8IEC69EseSly4yiOiymIiKkOQ4U0Y24hCXqKOcSU94Lr02rogqO-g8S9bw-MerbLr1lcYOxZjNBuRXjM9R-_Wyh786VgZgrRLrKhFY8vsTUi2PWT7JuHn1N1IaYdvc5/s320/Lucky+and+Maddie+hope+for+a+treat.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280971488429282802" border="0" /></a><br />These are some snapshots of the family kind, taken when I borrowed a camera for 10 minutes today, so all posed. The only one who truly co-operated was zeusie-katz; everyone else acted like i was going to do something hideous to them.<br />Until the treats came out!!!!<br />Wildfire, the gorgeous shiny black girl with golden trim, was adopted by me from AR last year (as was Maddie, the other "sweater girl"). Wildfire was completely unsocialised and feral; I did not get to touch her for 2 months, she always ran in the yard and hid truly like a terrified wild thing; she slept outside, couldn't get her near the door.<br />It amazes and heartens me now to see her so integrated in the pack, and happy to let me pat her. This is the power of the dog whispering method.<br />Anyway, this is the full membership of Lucky's pack (see the post below for more). She seems content to be here.kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-43665097763344014512008-12-16T14:26:00.000-08:002008-12-16T16:20:27.053-08:00Good Fortune and LuckyIt was hovering around 40 degrees outside, when I came in - soaked to the skin - from walking the rescue dogs. It was not a whole lot better inside; 48 in the kitchen, 52 in the main room. Drizzle has threaded the earth with the sky in a soft damp gauze since yesterday. The ground is soft, in places flowing with a rich brown stream. Surprisingly - or not, they are very resilient in nature - the dogs were sprightly. Only one, the thin shy Mimi, just arrived from Taiwan, stayed in her house, refusing a walk. I feel badly for them in the cold and wet. But mostly they played and barked and generally carried on much the same. Until after their meal, when silence descended, everyone curled in an igloo.<br />My hands were icy, feeding the dogs was a challenge, the spoon hard to grip in unresponsive fingers. Jeans, shoes and socks were degrees darker than when the day began, the colour re-defined by rain. Two waterproof jackets had kept the top half pretty dry, and i was not aware of the damp cold so much until I got home. Then I could not get changed, or carry in wood to light a fire, quickly enough.<br />But I was joyful. It had not rained heavily as we walked, Kamil and I and dogs together. Sliding a little in the mud, laughing.<br />I realised yesterday how fortunate I am. This remembrance eludes me most days. I want to stay in bed, or watch videos or fiddle on the computer. Its not like compassion for others runs through my veins; would I do this every single day if it was not laid out before me as a gift? I do not know. There is nowhere else in this word I want to be other than in this sacred Valley, but there is resistance to the tasks that living here involve.<br />Jetsunma has reminded us that compassionate activity is an expression of our spiritual path. There is no division between the aspiration and expression of our prayers, and the choice and commitment to lead a life of compassionate service to others. In fact, it would seem to me, that it is through the action of compassion that the intention of our prayers and practice will be realised. Wisdom and Compassion are the essence of awakened mind, we cannot know one in our hearts without recognising the other.<br />As I look out from the hill where we walk, the valley and mountains like a banquet before me, I realise that here is the source of accomplishment, the entire path. There is the magic and mystery, the potent sacredness of the land itself which has whispered to me, moment by moment, year by year since I first had the privilege to be here. I know this land is more than I can comprehend, it is a realm of pure potential. And now, through the kindness of the dogs we have saved from death, there is the opportunity to open my heart and embrace compassion, daily.<br />This is it, both sides of the coin, and only through the grace of my teacher, can I be here. Like it or not (and some days definitely not), it is a supreme blessing to have the path offered in this way.<br />But of course it is not just here, that is the delicious nature of the Vajrayana path. It is everywhere, where each and everyone of us finds ourselves. The entire path will always be available, in whatever setting or circumstance we live. It's about turning our hearts and minds to see it, know it, engage in it - prayer, devotion, compassion. There is never a moment, nor a place, when this possibility is not present.<br />I forget this mostly, my thoughts and emotions wear me down, distract me. I don't see clearly, even here, right in the midst of it. I'm not pretending to have any deep insights or recognition. Yet it is there, always, and sometimes if we glimpse inside our very own hearts we will know it.<br />As I write this, 6 dogs and one cat are curled on various beds and furniture in this humble cabin. Six dogs - one of whom is snoring. And that would be Lucky! Yes, for those of you who read this and who are her fans, Lucky moved in with us a week or so ago!! I had been worried for her hairless body as the days grew colder. She lived in our bunkhouse, but had become the only resident, so a fire would not be tended. I decided to bring her to the cabin where I stay.<br />It went brilliantly from day one, I could hardly believe how she slipped right in to the family with barely a murmur. I am proud of my 5 who accepted her so readily. The first night she stayed in the kitchen, but her reticence was over pretty quickly. Day 2 she claimed the small couch as her own, and now freely moves from dog bed to dog bed, and sometimes my own! She loves being in a pack. Mostly we walk together, but one day I left her behind. She howled loudly and mournfully the entire time we were away - it ricocheted through the whole valley; when we got back she was at the gate, wagging her tail wildly that we had returned.<br />Ostensibly it is a foster placement, but already i feel my reluctance at the thought of her leaving. A good friend of mine, on hearing this, said "Well, Lucky was always one of yours, don't you think?", and I think of the karma shared between her rescuer Ms Wu, who scraped this dying dog off the streets of Taiwan, Lucky herself, and me, that she should now lay curled up in a blanket on the couch by my side.<br />I promise photos. I don't have a camera, but will borrow one. I want you to share in the joy of Lucky's life. Proof that the chain of loving-kindness and compassion is free of geography, and ceaseless. We are the chain, both a link and its entirety. We just have to be willing to live it.kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-51632570878003824202008-12-01T21:07:00.000-08:002008-12-01T22:06:18.116-08:00wrinkles of life<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEc7NXfuZ7OeT272UY1i9-lUhDD8uvGpz19AONG74zdRUsRXUKBiY5M010yTOm8OYbNYqn_DI51CniawouZtZjfEhRnu7uo-kUmupT4kttiKAuu9Lhd3dRz9-DVng0ItsDuWal/s1600-h/kunzang+ugly+face.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEc7NXfuZ7OeT272UY1i9-lUhDD8uvGpz19AONG74zdRUsRXUKBiY5M010yTOm8OYbNYqn_DI51CniawouZtZjfEhRnu7uo-kUmupT4kttiKAuu9Lhd3dRz9-DVng0ItsDuWal/s320/kunzang+ugly+face.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275055676549960706" border="0" /></a><br />I suspect no-one is reading this blog anymore; there is nothing to read. Like waiting for a much anticipated phone call that never occurs. At some point you give up and move on, and perhaps even forget that you ever waited.<br />I am sorry I have stopped writing, i enjoy it very much. It is pointless to offer explanations, that is like trying to define life and its perpetual movement - there is so much that could be said, and mostly it has no significance.<br />But for anyone glancing in, here is what I think is one of the worst photos of me, ever. Mary and Tom came by, Mary always camera-ready, and she took some shots when I was with the rescue dogs. The pictures of the dogs are much nicer! And it has nothing to do with Mary's skill, as she just won first prize for photography at a show. No, I really do look like this.<br />It is an interesting contemplation, actually, to see one's face and recognise that the bloom of youth and beauty really has changed. Evaporated, dissolved. It is inevitable and it surely is one of the foundational Buddhist teachings that remains so hard to embrace, deeply and with clear understanding. Nothing is permanent, and youth most definitely not. However we may see ourselves looking from the inside out, our outsides will wither and decay.<br />I recently connected with the school in Australia which I attended from age 6 to age 16, ie my entire school life. That is a lot of years to spend with the same group of people - actually longer than I have been in the USA with this Sangha. So names and faces are branded in my memory. As an "old girl" (ie graduate of that school), I am now able to access a website where photos of my school life flash before my eyes. Me, at 13 years old, fresh faced, head full of dreams. I recognise the girls around me so acutely. Realising that whatever we thought or planned, none of us had any idea of what would befall us, what we would do or experience in our lives. I look at the pictures of the current students - they all look like we did, however unique we may feel, there is also a sameness, a rhythm of life that repeats itself again and again. Then I look at the reunion snapshots, some from my graduating year, some from women now in their 70's. All of us went to the same school, grew in a sense from the same foundation. Had dreams and inspirations. And all of us will look in the mirror and see change etched in our skin.<br />Death is inevitable, for all of us. I do not say this to be maudlin, it is just that seeing my youth on the screen, doing a virtual tour of my school - much of it the same as nearly 40 years ago - reminded me that this is the ebb and flow of existence. Whatever I imagined my life would be like as I sat with my friends in the schoolyard (and becoming a Buddhist nun was not on the chart!), does not matter. It is the life I have lived that I have to come to terms with, it is the choices I make now that will determine the future. And it is true that the invincibility of youth will at last and finally dissolve into the passing from this existence.<br />In the meantime, there is much to be done. Always. I imagine most everyone knows that feeling. And there are moments of joy, to be cherished. And those that we love to support us. Here are two beautiful photos taken by Mary on the very same day.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtWKFwCjwvp4GztunIELlYL4FYwJyFuEvQ5IXC7Ii_hEtG6TfdrIqu7hWW-Ahg7khwyn9_3rSxvOa76E20NYN8eXU-L6OzLlsIhTMt2FNmCTWLCUnvu8jo3Sh0W4oFSVcimFhq/s1600-h/nyima.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtWKFwCjwvp4GztunIELlYL4FYwJyFuEvQ5IXC7Ii_hEtG6TfdrIqu7hWW-Ahg7khwyn9_3rSxvOa76E20NYN8eXU-L6OzLlsIhTMt2FNmCTWLCUnvu8jo3Sh0W4oFSVcimFhq/s320/nyima.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275068384321321970" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">my beloved Nyima<br /><br /></span></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF4xg_T97bjTdaZoU5Z6qmbyYwDBWhkX8cYUD3sqzhn4MV-bH26GrkK6yZmY4yzOHdbfkiykrgM1GBU8A81wKe530u_QJSZbVPVDpFZduIDWHwJm8aokNZENVCNVzfUWwIq1uA/s1600-h/a+kiss+from+maddie.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF4xg_T97bjTdaZoU5Z6qmbyYwDBWhkX8cYUD3sqzhn4MV-bH26GrkK6yZmY4yzOHdbfkiykrgM1GBU8A81wKe530u_QJSZbVPVDpFZduIDWHwJm8aokNZENVCNVzfUWwIq1uA/s320/a+kiss+from+maddie.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275066533142740946" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">a kiss from Madelaine, the AR rescue I adopted last year</span></span><br /></div>kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-82594885514849968142008-09-15T17:21:00.000-07:002008-09-15T17:47:19.702-07:00smiling on retreat<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtJXTbRMcWqS-qS8BkwRSeiF1K73dVMcM3ze0UVXqC1Co1RAuQxjsV5biAcd6HWol9-_YG2qtSjxEJy3bAeAOPVho6H-aOhA5AioK3tTgB0BjwSkmGu5_e8cG4CM4l_FyD8K6S/s1600-h/Kunzang+and+Miranda+at+retreat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtJXTbRMcWqS-qS8BkwRSeiF1K73dVMcM3ze0UVXqC1Co1RAuQxjsV5biAcd6HWol9-_YG2qtSjxEJy3bAeAOPVho6H-aOhA5AioK3tTgB0BjwSkmGu5_e8cG4CM4l_FyD8K6S/s320/Kunzang+and+Miranda+at+retreat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246409333283011922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">photo by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Konchog</span><br /><br /></span></span></div>A snapshot from retreat...carrying the sacred texts on the Buddhist Holy Day, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Chokhor</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Duchen</span>. A beautiful ceremony, where we followed <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">HH</span> Karma Kuchen <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Rinpoche</span>, and the other revered <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Tulku</span> and teachers, around the perimeter of the retreat land. Accompanied by the sound of conch shells and other instruments, and melodic voices chanting.<br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Ani</span> Miranda is in front of me, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Ani</span> Alyce-Louise behind. It was a wonderful, joyful event.kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-540232571993488882008-09-07T13:01:00.000-07:002008-09-07T14:57:31.723-07:00recognising the sacred<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAt3I2XLdfU8O4nJrpKVka2cnWMlhH4wDKgs9q_I7QYS61oJpEIaZOwrTm6PAjKhv3g6Ovrmlhyn6GJZtXkY-vOqgwPwWq6sRw2UfAUclnV8yyWfkSsU2u3FjTIGNJfgsUYVGU/s1600-h/stupa180x270.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 178px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAt3I2XLdfU8O4nJrpKVka2cnWMlhH4wDKgs9q_I7QYS61oJpEIaZOwrTm6PAjKhv3g6Ovrmlhyn6GJZtXkY-vOqgwPwWq6sRw2UfAUclnV8yyWfkSsU2u3FjTIGNJfgsUYVGU/s320/stupa180x270.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243387111820362898" border="0" /></a><br />Most people reading this blog were probably, like me, born into a culture that does not have Buddhist roots. Maybe even into a sub-culture or family where religion or the sacred was not given a high priority. Perhaps we went to church, or had some exposure to faith and God, but perhaps it was not inscribed in our being, our daily life. Or perhaps it was, but as we grew old we forgot that which we cherished when young. I would say for me it was a mixture of all of these things, a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">continuously</span> shifting relationship with the sacred.<br />Having spent one month in a sacred environment, where every moment is lived within the context of faith and honoring the divine, I am reminded of the contrast with so much of the ordinary world. Retreat with His Holiness is an extraordinary experience, because its as if the angle of the axis has shifted, and perception of the world adjusts, expands. Although common daily activities repeat themselves (sleeping, waking, eating, cleaning, laughing, talking, working), they are no longer the focus or framework of the time and space in which you exist. They are peripheral to the real life of retreat, which is recognising and responding to the sacred which is both within and beyond each and every one of us. Of course, this sacredness is always there - it is who we are - but retreat provides the context and rhythm for allowing recognition to arise.<br />This year I had the great good fortune to be Co-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ordinator</span> of Holiness' Temple. Of course, I flinched and complained as well (it's a big job, and I can be a lazy person), but what an amazing blessing to work with a dedicated team of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">retreatants</span> to keep the Temple clean, to prepare for teachings and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">empowerments</span>, to assist in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">empowerments</span>. The Temple is the foundation of retreat activity, so to care for it is to honour the source of countless blessings.<br />One of the greatest rewards for me is the chance to work closely with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">HH</span> monks. Kind, relaxed, humorous, devoted, hard-working, tireless - they are an inspiration to me, and I learn so much from them, directly and in a more subtle way. Observing their posture to His Holiness, the Temple, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Dharma</span>, each other. There is no question, their devotion is seamless. Recognition of the sacred is not something assumed, it is who they are.<br />This exposure is, for me, a great gift. As I work to learn a new way of being, to incorporate deeply the meaning of the Buddhist path in my daily existence, to uncover that which I truly am, still hidden in layers of habits with no real meaning or value, it is refreshing and expansive to be in a place where there is no doubt, no hesitation. At retreat the sacred is evident and everywhere, the separation diminishes, the wonder and joy erupts and spills into every breath. Certainty and courage fill the cells of the body.<br />At the top of this post is an image of a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Stupa</span>, a sacred Buddhist monument. It is not such a familiar sight in our western world, although they are now scattered in places across the globe. This one is in <a href="http://www.stupas.org"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Sedona</span>, Arizona</a>, and is exquisite. The image of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Amitabha</span>, the Buddha of Limitless Light, who vowed to help all who prayed to him, looks out across the rugged red rocks.<br />Like every <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Stupa</span>, it is filled with sacred items, holy texts and relics of immeasurable value. It was consecrated in a magnificent traditional ceremony, and is a beacon of purity and peace in a world of war and decay. It holds a special place in my heart, as money I inherited from my deceased parents helped contribute to its being built, a great blessing for them. And a diamond and silver brooch my father gave my mother many years ago is attached to the tree of life, which runs through its centre.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcRWZ0c9bx9J97XkglOZVO7tZ9ZC_KdQXXtQl38dvZa7MVRkyU1_g1XY4vwx0ircKJM9SGApxxPUymR6M7DQfiWfGxKlHM9K9FPL_Hv0GoO0ADf8PIR5pwA7KxvgucKct8wW-x/s1600-h/tree.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcRWZ0c9bx9J97XkglOZVO7tZ9ZC_KdQXXtQl38dvZa7MVRkyU1_g1XY4vwx0ircKJM9SGApxxPUymR6M7DQfiWfGxKlHM9K9FPL_Hv0GoO0ADf8PIR5pwA7KxvgucKct8wW-x/s320/tree.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243396926890963938" border="0" /></a><br />This <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Stupa</span>, as pure and sacred as it is, is in danger. The land on which it sits has an outstanding loan that must urgently be paid off or potentially be lost. Who knows what the outcome of that loss would be, it is unbearable to consider.<br />So I ask for your help to save that which is sacred, although not in a form we may easily recognise. That is the dilemma we face in our lives, of recognising the breadth and depth of the sacred within or around us. It may take look unfamiliar to us, seem foreign and beyond our understanding. Yet that does not diminish or destroy its inherent qualities of grace, of kindness, of compassion, the qualities of our hearts. If we honour the sacred, we honour ourselves and all beings. We honour a future of peace.<br />At retreat I was exposed to the certainty of the sacred, and its power. This <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Stupa</span> is a reflection of that certainty, and is a gift to our world. Please help preserve that which is precious, as unfamiliar as it may seem to us. Although not of the culture in which we were born, it arises from the pure culture of awakened compassion to which - ultimately - we all belong.kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-46183591591949080582008-07-08T19:54:00.000-07:002008-12-10T18:27:45.275-08:00the gift of kindness<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoyVqzWgKH1vgOG4WUo0xXju0ymf3zFmTBaYjutt2V1wwrUABTRQFURZ0V8M1ihP8NZgBmy1aRm6_heDekVBCLXpVOqZXEbLXXTSlTqsjVIo7gaaf2lNm6vg_q7HjguXcMx3eX/s1600-h/rosie+and+kunzang.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220854611093809026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoyVqzWgKH1vgOG4WUo0xXju0ymf3zFmTBaYjutt2V1wwrUABTRQFURZ0V8M1ihP8NZgBmy1aRm6_heDekVBCLXpVOqZXEbLXXTSlTqsjVIo7gaaf2lNm6vg_q7HjguXcMx3eX/s320/rosie+and+kunzang.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div>If anyone has been looking for me, you may have thought I have fallen off the edge of the world. Perhaps I did. It seems the edge of the world is not as solid or fixed as we once imagined.</div><div>Hard to explain my silence. Not that I have been silent at all, as anyone who sees me during the day will confirm. But the appearance of my life has a different rhythm, and I have not yet found the space for writing this blog. I have been working more with the rescue dogs, often leaving me tired after the heat of morning walks, and the computer is in a small office that I share with someone, so the mental space from which words are drawn has seemed less accessible.</div><div>Even now, I will not say much. I am writing this in MD, in a household of nuns, all of whom have retired for the night leaving me - on AZ time and wide awake! - in a quiet space where words can flow. Tomorrow I leave for 1 month retreat, a welcome blessing for which I am most grateful. </div><div>I apologise for anyone who may have looked for new posts and found the cupboard bare. And most especially for those who asked questions of me, and found a reply of silence.</div><div>Lucky is still here - I will post photos on my return. She is blossoming; growing quite a lot of hair - liberally sprinkled with white. She spends her evenings inside and her days in her yard. She has an air of contentment. We are getting a few more dogs from Taiwan in late August - Ms Wu has managed to keep them thus far, but their time has run out, and this is their last opportunity to live. You can see them <a href="http://www.tarasbabies.org/">here</a> - that is BaiBai on the home page.</div><div>The question was posed as to how one becomes a Dakini? I am no scholar at all, and this could be a bigger answer, I am sure....</div><div>A Dakini is a female wisdom being, who has accomplished the state of awakening, and is a display of pure wisdom and compassion. They bring the activity aspect of the Dharma alive in the world.</div><div>To awaken to this state, one engages in a path of compassion and wisdom, of living a life committed to loving-kindness, compassion, joy and equanimity. Someone like Jetsunma, who is considered a Dakini, has in the past accomplished the pure qualities of awakened compassion, and so comes to this world for the sole purpose of bringing benefit and ending suffering.</div><div>Tara's Babies rescue, created by Jetsunma, is such an activity. It has certainly provided me with countless opportunities to change, to grow, to soften and open my heart. I still resist, habits run deep, but there are moments, such as with Rosie above, when I am deeply grateful for what I am offered.</div><div>Rosie was a local rescue in AZ. At our Sanctuary I was terrified of her, would not work with her. A pitbull/rottie mix she can be ferocious at the fence, and I fell into stereotyping her, despite others telling me what a sweet dog she is. No way!</div><div>Well, she moved to MD when I was there this winter. While her yard was being built, she had to spend quite some days in a crate, and there was no-one to walk her. I had no choice. Stiffly, fearfully I took her out. Then I fell in love. Allowing myself to relax and breathe, I discovered there was nothing to fear. She is a loving, beautiful, obedient dog, who flinches sometimes, clearly having known abusive wrath in the past. </div><div>My last night there she slept in my bed, cuddled like a teddy bear. I was sorry to say goodbye. She is still yearning for a home, and will make a most loving and faithful companion, if you know anyone searching for such a dog. Contact us at <a href="mailto:tarasbabies@earthlink.net">tarasbabies@earthlink.net</a>.</div><div>Rosie taught me much in those couple of weeks, about fear, about assumptions and judgement, about offering and receiving love. About softening the heart and trying to see the world through the eyes of someone in need. For me, this is the preciousness of the Dharma I have met through Jetsunma. It is about learning to engage with the world with qualities that are both simple and immense. </div><div>The study and the traditional foundation of teachings are critical to deepening and opening the mind, hence the great blessing of retreat. But the essence is to live, to be, an ever-deepening river of kindness and compassion - aware, responsive, courageous. We can learn this from the wise words and examples of those whose lives are always a reflection of thse qualities. But it is up to us to translate - with our hearts and our actions - every moment of our lives into a gift of kindness to the world.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div>kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-68232969076034202022008-04-03T16:26:00.000-07:002008-12-10T18:27:45.459-08:00distinguishing light in the dark<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi68xcCq4r8THNCC7E-A13Fw8-kFu4n9iu4yLjvvF86PxMFC5xREh-MghMa3ZvOHSiakklrbwZhjEsMUaF5P4txKssYjppJajoxo5zKW-rjGAaUk-fkJ1uzvk7BM0q7UKF9R7Ht/s1600-h/JAL%252B2007.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185186186247193906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi68xcCq4r8THNCC7E-A13Fw8-kFu4n9iu4yLjvvF86PxMFC5xREh-MghMa3ZvOHSiakklrbwZhjEsMUaF5P4txKssYjppJajoxo5zKW-rjGAaUk-fkJ1uzvk7BM0q7UKF9R7Ht/s320/JAL%252B2007.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>Jetsunma teaching</em></div><div align="center"><em>at Dakini Valley, Fall 07</em></div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify">Recent weeks have seen me elsewhere; i went to Maryland, where my teacher Jetsunma resides, and our main Temple is located. I had the wonderful good fortune to stay in a room at the Temple itself. The Prayer room there, resplendent with multiple altars, sacred images and magnificent crystals that must have lain in the earth for eons, is rich with the precious energy of prayer. Our <a href="http://prayerwithoutceasing.org/">prayer vigil </a>for world peace has been unceasing for over 2 decades: for every minute of every day - the full 24 hours - someone has been engaged in prayer dedicated to the end of suffering. When I think of what my life looked like over 20 years ago - very, very different than now! - and all the gazillion things I have done in that time, it is grounding and inspiring to realise that for each and every moment I wandered here and there, someone was steadfastly in prayer to bring benefit. A constant stream of quiet kindness and devotion to still the troubling seas of our ever-changing world.</div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify">It was a turbulent time in some ways; a lot is going on in the world and therefore in my own world, as each reflects the other. Yet it was a refreshing time - not the retreat I had anticipated! - but deeply enriching and fulfilling. I was joyfully blessed to be present when Jetsunma taught. It was lovely to see my dharma brothers and sisters, and share time in both prayer and laughter. The landscape was new for me - the nakedness of winter; I had only been to MD in summer before. The starkness of bare trees against blue sky was wondrous. I spent many, many hours walking in our 65 acres of the Stupa and Peace park, following the winding trails though forest, from stupa to stupa. For these interludes I have 10 rescue dogs to thank: some of our rescue babies followed me to MD, arriving a week after me. So my retreat was more active than I had planned, but every footfall in the forest silence, every curve of the path, every view from the rises and descent to the waterways was a pause in the chaos of life. Some moments - like standing at the top of the wooden stairs leading from the yellow garden to the white late one afternoon - took my breath away; standing still, the distance between this instant and the next vanished and I was as naked as the trees, my breath became prayer, there was nothing but the vastness of display.</div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify">Over a month, of course, every emotion and reaction - high and low - was evident in my mind. But something precious emerged. A much deeper, profound awareness of my relationship with Jetsunma and the purity and power of our Palyul lineage clarified within. This year will see the tenth anniversary of that moment when my heart recognised Jetsunma with such potency that my entire life shifted, and I asked her to accept me as her student. In that decade I have received countless blessings from her - some overt, some not. Each and every one - each and every breath - has shaped my life and my world, not always without struggle, but never with regret. These last weeks re-defined, refined, clarified the intimacy and potency of her presence in my life, this world. It is both empowering and humbling, and the gift of my life for which I am grateful beyond measure.</div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify">Returning to Dakini Valley was a coming home in many ways; I am trying to live each day remembering that flame in my heart. The landscape here embraces me with such timelessness and quiet magnificence that my heart splits wide open. Every day joy spills out, and echoes across the hills. I owe this Valley much, because it has nurtured me and taught me for seven years now; may I re-pay the kindness with love and care for its every aspect, and for all the creatures to whom it offers refuge. We only have this one life to offer, nothing more, nothing less. May mine be a reflection of the compassion and wisdom that Jetsunma never ceases to display.</div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify"></div>kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-69110015387753254052008-02-10T19:36:00.000-08:002008-12-10T18:27:46.251-08:00Surrender and Defeat<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMWVBdkslxWXdT5TEaYG05YJ2zs_ksUgmx06GCi3piOE9wtdA0CSEx98niZoJ-V0wbRzAUXdaS_B9jK3NGLUaq8QC0QJ2_dfcNFtAlJSHFzjcKKIGyyrsavH-Pj25d7W_y19sx/s1600-h/P2050112.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165596666856140130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMWVBdkslxWXdT5TEaYG05YJ2zs_ksUgmx06GCi3piOE9wtdA0CSEx98niZoJ-V0wbRzAUXdaS_B9jK3NGLUaq8QC0QJ2_dfcNFtAlJSHFzjcKKIGyyrsavH-Pj25d7W_y19sx/s320/P2050112.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I have been in a state of defeat the last couple of days. Which is not the same as surrender. Surrender is a place of strength and courage, of willingness and certainty. A cavernous heart open and vulnerable and welcoming. Fearless. Defeat is huddled on the armchair, overwhelmed and stuck. Eyes and mind shaded to beauty, potential. Even the magnificence of the sharpened blue sky cascading over the landscape is ignored. Bleakness within and without.<br />I could list the (tedious) reasons for this state of mind. Better still, probably many of you who know me, or something of the current circumstances of my life, could write the list for me. It is not a new list, it is worn and tattered, tea and peanut butter stains and snarled bits of lint caught in the wrinkles are evidence it has been shoved in pockets and laid on the table time after time. Life after life. Always with a sigh.<br />Possibly, however, your list will be incomplete. Because only I and my teacher, and those with clear hearts so pure and open they have no boundaries, know the inside out of my habits. Carried around, sometimes mournfully, as a precious definition of existence. Precious not meaning good or of value, but a refusal to abandon. <div>People often say how busy they know I am. Am I? Actually procrastination is an old friend. Whenever Jetsunma mentions the poison of slothfulness in a teaching, I wince. Combined with resistance, also familiar, it is a neat little package for wasting time. And feeling rotten about it.</div><div>This is not a sackcloth and ashes confession, or a solicitation for assurances of good character. Self-honesty is simply a method for exposing that which ultimately hides the truth.</div><div>Part of the dilemma has arisen from the sense of not living purely by the truth. That the apparent display of who I am, what I represent is not always in accord with the situation. This is not a reference to ultimate truth or reality, merely the day-by-day activity of my current habitation. Its uncomfortable to live in even a moment of half-truth about who you are or what you do. Although not uncomfortable enough, I guess, to provoke me to mindfully and consistently engage in pure view, which would help clear up the problem once and for all.</div><div>Yesterday the potency of mindfulness was brought to my attention. It is an accurate and sharp sword to slay confusion. It is so easy to look at the list, or the people around me, or the weather and mud and lay blame for the quirks and foibles of my life. To create an enormous mound of inconsolable reasons and let it landslide over the heart, barely leaving space for breath. Defeat seems inevitable. Yet not wallowing in the mire, and instead becoming aware in the moment, which is nought but potential, is more powerful than imagination allows.</div><div>In a teaching on fearlessness (Shambhala Sun March 02) Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche said that as warriors embarking on a path of fearlessness, <em>"We begin to feel that the we are dealing with a rich world, one that never runs out of messages."</em> Recognising these messages in every moment of mindfulness allows apparent defeat to be the foundation of true surrender.</div><div>Yesterday was long and hard, I was tired, unwell, in pain and overwhelmed by the enormity of tasks before me. In the afternoon, a gift from a dear friend arrived for Losar, the Tibetan New Year. The white tube clearly did not contain a sweater or a pair of socks. A Dharma item, a poster perhaps. Sludging home through the mud, I reminded myself, whatever it was, it was arising in my mindstream, and to take heed of that blessing.</div><div>Opening the package, I wept. It is an exquisite thangka of Hayagriva. I have made many prayers to Hayagriva, the deity of pure speech, that my writing and speech should arise from pristine compassion and be of benefit. His statue, blessed by HH Penor Rinpoche, is centrepiece on my altar. He is an aspect of Chenrezig, the great compassionate one, whom I love dearly. Most amazing of all, my friend later told me, this thangka was one of several Dharma items bought in Taiwan, and chosen by <a href="http://www.dakmar.org/">Dragmar Tulku Rinpoche</a>- himself recognised as an emanation of this deity. This is an indescribable treasure to appear in my life.</div><div>So there, amidst the rubble of apparent defeat, rose the warrior in my heart. A tangible message in just one moment of one day. In a sense, nothing happened at all, except a softening of the brittle shell cocooning my heart. Allowing the rawness of potential to take shape. A wild, ferocious powerful potential, on a single inhalation. Followed by a teardrop, merging silently with the ocean, invisible in the vastness. But moist, fertile. Defeat became surrender; it probably always was. There is no good or bad, there is only this one single moment of everything. An open heart will know this, and welcome every moment mindfully, tenderly, with joy.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165596675446074738" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj4b6ADK5IHbRapijl0muGqfTM7FYNrAEVCo1Robl0cQuz1TXa-UVUV_phyphenhyphenCdrq3uSZSCSmmde6FzslJ18x8ijaVNa8qhH8HemGlbxcTEXoIxEkTx25i6X9Xdrb6OuVkcIDY9g/s320/P2050111.jpg" border="0" />kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-77818384302182438272008-01-19T17:23:00.000-08:002008-12-10T18:27:46.479-08:00bewilderment<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZIKW5lGyJtKYdnx6GAfH82CCV7SrWXFk_4t24msPsVY17dFzwy0VLHC4IVh-Ko53z2HftQXyXmuWe-NA1QqtjSYWwkwQVIkeZGcs8WX84K-dpRjt3qQtehflgMoRzkJo-wNTg/s1600-h/water-circle-lk2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157391890418136642" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZIKW5lGyJtKYdnx6GAfH82CCV7SrWXFk_4t24msPsVY17dFzwy0VLHC4IVh-Ko53z2HftQXyXmuWe-NA1QqtjSYWwkwQVIkeZGcs8WX84K-dpRjt3qQtehflgMoRzkJo-wNTg/s320/water-circle-lk2.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em><span style="font-size:78%;">courtesy bigfoto.com</span></em> </div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">Eloquence is erratic. There are some for whom the poetry of expression never falters, but I cannot include myself in that group. And yet it is never absent, because the language of the divine is inscribed in every heart, it is the blood in our veins, the ink in our pens, the tears that fall on the darkened earth, longing. Like everything else, it is who we are - every one of us, searching to describe the content and images of our lives. Although there is nothing to describe, yet still we insist. We should just be, live. With the courage and certainty of the truth of compassion.</div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="center"><em></em></div><div align="center"><em>Yesterday upon the stair</em></div><div align="center"><em>I met a man who wasn't there.</em></div><div align="center"><em>He wasn't there again today,</em></div><div align="center"><em>Oh! How i wish he'd go away.</em> </div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">(apologies to Norman Lear if my memory is awry)</span></div><div align="center"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="left">It is not about the fleeting pretence of shadow, elusive. What is it about? Probably nothing, which is everything, and that is the bewilderment that we share.</div>kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-69570323812939896772008-01-12T16:10:00.000-08:002008-12-10T18:27:46.717-08:00words in the dust<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY-wa9nsHHL1DRX6_cHm5WWSc1QjxA8vS2HU9MZPDlUQkttoj3Lfxs79hx98muLrF80k4WVInGHMUWUF9U2MD9C9gIQCuMl3m63loAWXvmY52vHkrf6Jzw-U-102_gB0TFDR4o/s1600-h/australia_74_sandstorm.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5154750438286456370" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY-wa9nsHHL1DRX6_cHm5WWSc1QjxA8vS2HU9MZPDlUQkttoj3Lfxs79hx98muLrF80k4WVInGHMUWUF9U2MD9C9gIQCuMl3m63loAWXvmY52vHkrf6Jzw-U-102_gB0TFDR4o/s400/australia_74_sandstorm.jpg" border="0" /></a> <strong><em>Australian sandstorm</em></strong></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:78%;">photo courtesy bigfoto.com</span></em><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="left">The earth remembers a time when its full soft heart bore the imprint of all that could be, when the textures and colors of present and past were not fixed. Perhaps that time is now, the moment of every moment.<br />I realize I know so little and understand even less. I have witnessed a footprint embedded in rock, the dance of potential reflected in the shape of the clouds and the stone at my feet. Who says it is not possible to bear witness to the unfathomable. We do it every day.<br />I received a letter from a friend I have not seen for many years, written in a language I no longer speak very often, yet is still in my dreams. We met in a city encased by a wall, carved out of time, where the buildings and people still remembered a war, bullet holes freckling the sides of the streets. It was a long time ago. Or perhaps not at all. Now the history of war has been replaced not just once, and new enemies shaped out of hatred and fear. The past and present reflect the same pain. Shaping a future of sorrow.<br />My friend and I have aged, though a decade still separates us, as does the ocean. But the sky has held us together, despite time and space.<br />My eyes softened, moist, as I read her words and she shared a glimpse of her life and family, other friends, still in that city, knowing that although paths can shift and separate and lives reflect a thousand facets we may never see, we all share a heart, we all share a birth. And we will all share a death. There is so much the same in our differences. This is what we offer each other. As solace, as support. For courage.<br />I am not sure I know what friendship is, as perhaps I once did. Perhaps it doesn't matter. Our lives collide, and we share our days with people we may not call friends, and yet they populate the space in which we define ourselves. And others, removed from that daily sphere, still send ripples across the stillness of our hearts.<br />My hair was bleached white, or dyed scalding scarlet. Now I wear a shaved head. Really it shows that appearance is all in the blink of an eye, even as I cling to it as a definition of self.<br />Memory is a room filled with shadows, that I try to recall, to sharpen. And I do. Is there yearning? For what? For nothing but a remembered fiction of what I believed was fixed. My life has proven that to be untrue. Nothing is. Even the idea of peace is elusive.<br />I write because it is an expression of that which I cannot define, the words are the sound of the swollen creek, relentless in movement. Never still. Sometimes a person, a moment, evokes in me the wish - the need - to be that stream, the sky, the cloud, reflected on paper.<br />Yet the paper will age and crumble and be swept by the wind and dissolve in the earth with the pounding of rain. And there will be nothing. Just the stillness of potential, future and past, and the shape of the earth as it clings to the sky, defining each moment through the eyes of all who behold it. </div></div>kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-24073745038698123962008-01-08T21:46:00.000-08:002008-12-10T18:27:46.863-08:00a request - or two<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCOuOe6kWm-zCFbJgJD0Fd8qz1BD7JdOtTowuiXobJ5-ie5HKO5iyY4yaqqLxtfR_UUjstuVcEP5d0xtYlluLRO0kea4a8mfMcmIolfHHGJbc-D1GJip6ZrNPnB200A52LLFOB/s1600-h/Greetingscopy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5153349806501557778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCOuOe6kWm-zCFbJgJD0Fd8qz1BD7JdOtTowuiXobJ5-ie5HKO5iyY4yaqqLxtfR_UUjstuVcEP5d0xtYlluLRO0kea4a8mfMcmIolfHHGJbc-D1GJip6ZrNPnB200A52LLFOB/s400/Greetingscopy.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify">This beautiful image comes from Lama Kunzang Dorjee in Bhutan. Magnificent, isn't it. May your year be as clear and vast as a pure heart of kindness.</div><div align="justify">As you know, I had the honour of signing the religious proclamation for compassion to animals on behalf of Lama Kunzang Dorjee. You can now go on-line to read and <a href="http://bestfriends.org/signproc">sign it</a>. I urge you to look and read what leaders representing many, many faiths wrote together...united by the common cause of making this world a kinder, better place for us all, by recognising the plight of animals and - most importantly - taking collective action to change the way we think and act. Whether you are aligned with a specific faith or not is irrelevant - the foundation of this process is simply a heart of caring and compassion, and the power that a thousand - a million - such hearts beating together can generate. It is a huge vision, and a potent one. Please look, and let others know.</div><div align="justify">On a much more mundane note, I am hoping someone can help me out. I rely on a computer - who doesn't, although I will absolutely confess that a computer for me is a very fancy sort of typewriter, which allows me to transform my thoughts into words on paper. Which, as a writer, I love to do!! But so much better than a typewriter ever was (I wrote a novel many years ago on a typewriter...all that white-out, sure was a drag!)</div><div align="justify">Anyway, the computer I was using, kindly donated to our animal rescue, died...and the technician said it is not worth fixing. The one I am using now is actually Jetsunma's, for the use of which I am extremely grateful. But as everyone reading this knows, when you have no computer, it is hard to communicate. In fact, out here, Internet is a lifeline.</div><div align="justify">So my more computer-savvy friends said to me.... <em>"Ask! People who <strong>are</strong> in that world of computers upgrade all the time"</em>. In fact, I know this to be true, because someone I know was just given a fabulous looking laptop which apparently is 6 years old, but works like new... it had been passed along by a friend of a friend etc, simply because of an upgrade.</div><div align="justify">So here it is: if any of you, or someone you know, has a laptop which has been superseded by a bigger, better, faster one, and for which you no longer have use, please consider me. All I ask is that it not be a clunker (like the original Apple I laptop I still have with me, must be over a dozen years old, is so slow and antiquated, but has all my fiction writing on it. It uses floppy discs only, how's that!). </div><div align="justify">I need to have wireless ability, and enough memory for storing lots of photos and word documents. The applications I use are just word and fiddling with photos - you know, making flyers for dog adoptions etc. Nothing fancy, other people do that! So not too old, or slow, as long as its in good working order, yet it doesn't have to be your super-dooper top of the range.</div><div align="justify">But a laptop would be lovely, because I could sit at night in the warmth of the log cabin where I am blessed to live, surrounded by 5 dogs and a cat, all cosy and calm, and work, rather than here in Jetsunma's unheated and uninsulated library where, as the clock moves towards midnight, my toes are gradually freezing. In 2 pairs of socks!</div><div align="justify">Well, there it goes -- out into the ether. Email me at <a href="mailto:dakinivalley@myway.com">dakinivalley@myway.com</a> if you think you can help. It truly would be of help, both personally, and for the rescue animals, whose voice piece I need to be. </div><div align="justify">And either way, may each and every one of you have a rich and abundant year!</div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"> </div>kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-23999505770624077592007-12-24T14:57:00.000-08:002008-12-10T18:27:47.104-08:00bag ladies<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-3LX-ngKaKzJ0CqYbiUEokbro2GCMYl4ulA1CxU9_2jwaGOGukNGtQGsjE32-wEFUrHORqD5KlqVqAasn8BIwRjZAhUZZbS8H2JwkmVfDA0j5aQpWgkBgnWKuP-ArR8piuzWL/s1600-h/Lucky+and+Kunzang.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5147677791086081538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-3LX-ngKaKzJ0CqYbiUEokbro2GCMYl4ulA1CxU9_2jwaGOGukNGtQGsjE32-wEFUrHORqD5KlqVqAasn8BIwRjZAhUZZbS8H2JwkmVfDA0j5aQpWgkBgnWKuP-ArR8piuzWL/s400/Lucky+and+Kunzang.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>it's the day before Christmas. I am used to Christmases of great heat, sweltering in the summer warmth. Or some Christmases of snow, in Germany and here is my new home. This year, the weather seems ambivalent, it is mild and sunny today. So Christmas has no specified weather any more.</div><div>it is my birthday today, something also lacking specifics, except of course the simple one of age. 52, i will tell you unashamedly, and with some shock. I don't <em>feel </em>that old, whatever feeling a certain age should mean. Though my face is creased where it used to be smooth, and my hands wear more skin than they know what to do with, and arthritis in my thumbs sometimes jolts me with pain, and the little hair i have is no longer truly brown ( or red or yellow - I used to dye my hair a lot!). I am slower, tireder. But still, a part of me is fixed at some point that is timeless....</div><div>my mother always said I was the best Christmas present she ever received. In fact, I was meant to be a sagittarian, not capricorn, but in a habit I carry to this day, i was late. So late, the doctors swore I would have to be induced, but after Christmas, and then i decided to be born. My mother had the ambulance make a detour en route to the inner city hospital where I was born: she wanted to see the magnificent Christmas tree, rising high amongst the city buildings of Sydney, sparkling with tinsel and lights, in Martin Place. Like me, my mother was quite a romantic, and Christmas brings that out.</div><div>My first Christmas gift was from Santa, me not yet a day old, a blue teddy bear, whom i loved until an adult, when he was lost somehow whilst i travelled overseas. He was my protector, I even wrote a poem about him as a child. I was filled with great fear at night, and somehow his presence in my arms really comforted me. The great Kuntazangpo, the primordial wisdom Buddha, is blue, and sometimes I think, if a child, an infant were to call forth from her newborn heart that protector, perhaps a blue teddy bear would be the form. My name is an abbreviation of that great wisdom deity, so I am reminded of his presence every day. With gratitude.</div><div>When I was a day or so old, my mother heard a baby screaming in the nursery. In those days babies were kept together in a room, and brought to the mothers at feeding time. Perhaps that still happens, i really don't know. There was some great event happening in the hospital, and all the nurses were off the floor - a multiple birth or something. Anyway, no-one responded. my mother could not bear the sound, she said she knew it was her very own child. She slid from bed in her thin nightgown and ran down the hall. I had wedged my head between the rungs of the cot, and was screaming in pain and fear. She rescued and comforted me, as she always had and always will. This is the sharp penetrating immutable love of a parent for a child.</div><div>In Buddhism we are encouraged to reflect on that love, and to consider that in the endless shifting waves of time and space, every being has at some time been our parent. And therefore this love is the foundation of every connection between each and every one of us. But we forget, just as in later years, I forgot this burning love of my mother and sometimes spat anger at her from a twisted mouth. But ultimately the love is not affected, it is constant. And that is the most wonderful gift to be reminded of, that we can always offer each other - birthdays, Christmas, any and every time.</div><div>As a child I celebrated my birthday on August 16, my great-grandmother's birthday. My mother thought it unfair that my special day was always buried beneath the Christmas gifts. At some point - perhaps 13 - I shed that August date. Now I barely celebrate at all. The sun rises and sets as it does every day.</div><div>So here we are, Lucky and me, two old bag ladies who have found each other in the Arizona wilderness, each a little eccentric, each a little grey. And we wish you a wonderful Christmas, vibrant with friendship and love and the certainty that none of us is alone; that wherever we are, however we look, how many nights have passed since we were born, we are linked together in a luminous sphere of immeasurable compassion and loving kindness. That is truly something to celebrate together!</div><div></div><div></div><br /><p></p>kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-18289103896516127882007-12-01T16:24:00.000-08:002008-12-10T18:27:47.208-08:00raw tenderness<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixSJyJUfxaEWjzlk-j4dvBGiRpwxyQslQKF7FQkLZtZyoRSUQ3G8nJ2bzklKno9c0MM4y5PvUjJD2CZGklSQY9AcPSrwHzRdRCdAV9VSnRhBBaYqzKSlSngGMF8LfaVjOo4F7L/s1600-r/Lucky+and+Kunzang+Nov+07.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5139168868018645826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1hny1TXQutbAqIe9pQkriF9AdNqp72w_P4WaxEL8iteg2gLBK4Xhfl-6V6cZRp8_LQZ0B64pNREBPD7lRQIsF5wbReQJBbrNLL2LnLtfmCioCixLKoj-uMqEdSWbu9MrIXemG/s400/Lucky+and+Kunzang+Nov+07.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>The sky is leached from rain – the blue washed to grey, which caresses the mountain tops with a fine mist. The earth has relinquished its firmness, and allows itself to be shaped by the water, the road is a stream, and the anticipated support of the ground to your feet is questionable. All is fluid.<br />I sit in the office with our hairless rescue Lucky at my feet, curled on her blankets, encased in a sweater. Although we haven’t put the stove pipe into the woodstove yet, is is dry and not chilled like outside. She hears her friends and cries, not understanding that she would be miserable to the bones if she went down to the run. Warm chicken broth appeases her, she loves her food!<br />So much can happen without journeying anywhere. Weather, emotions, thoughts create and re-create our world. My trip to DC was wonderful; I met committed, caring people who, just like us, want to make this planet a better place, by awakening compassion for animals as far and wide as we can imagine. From all faiths, walks of life, locations – all of this was irrelevant, when it came to this common goal. This is the depth and breadth of what we share, even when we forget.<br />The last couple of weeks have been full. I have had the chance to glimpse into the past of this sacred valley, and to glimpse inside my very heart, and to begin to know there is no difference. I am surrounded with the history of a people who vanished centuries ago, and I am surrounded by people who know, love and care for each other at this moment. There is a continuum of compassion and kindness that is reflected in the hollow of the hills, and whispered by the wind: today howling, throwing rain at my window, to wake me up. In the valley or on the mountaintop, I know. Even when I don’t.<br />Jetsunma is here on retreat, a blessing for all. Today I was feeding my beloved finches, and there was a break in the clouds, a moment of sunshine. I searched for a rainbow, but there was none, or none that I saw. And I realized it is not about the searching, or even the seeing. It is about the certainty the rainbow is there, visible or not. Just as for distant friends, whom I cannot see or embrace, but whose love never ceases to penetrate my heart, and bind them with me in indefinable ways. Even their apparent absence is their presence in my life.<br />I am not a teacher, but I rely on one to look beyond what I see or think I know. Through her I receive blessings that may have names or forms, and which I may know with my heart, or not. The blessings are there, either way. For this, for the earth, for the sky, for the raging storm and the stillness, and for those who are a light in the darkness, I give thanks. </div>kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-20861252879158669142007-11-04T23:10:00.001-08:002008-12-10T18:27:47.406-08:00proclaiming compassion<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhijL3IJmHgdbFEG1SGyu783YitW3sYRkepzGXd84XsZBNDSwsyslfQsmONX-menTtzD25AYDJnS1j2p6EpdTOeJfoJ0pKQWDtKgkqXw1SsNoOzrD02su2asuKfEFeE3HLr4Yul/s1600-h/Arkansas+Rescue+009.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5129259064981033282" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhijL3IJmHgdbFEG1SGyu783YitW3sYRkepzGXd84XsZBNDSwsyslfQsmONX-menTtzD25AYDJnS1j2p6EpdTOeJfoJ0pKQWDtKgkqXw1SsNoOzrD02su2asuKfEFeE3HLr4Yul/s400/Arkansas+Rescue+009.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify"><br />I leave tomorrow for a trip to DC that seemed to blow in from nowhere, and is a vast door opening up. Best Friends, the exemplary and inspirational animal Sanctuary in Utah, this summer convened a group of faith leaders, representing 21 religions, to create a <a href="http://network.bestfriends.org/religion/news/">Religious Proclamation for Animal Compassion</a>. I first read of it in their magazine, and regretted we hadn't known about the process. Well, about 2 weeks ago I received a generic email inviting me to be a guest at the historic signing of this document in Congress. I called to see if we could actually be a signatory, only to discover that the Buddhist representative was Lama Kunzang Dorjee, an extraordinary Lama from Bhutan who visited here in August, while I was on retreat, and blessed all our animals. What a connection. Even more amazing, as Lama Kunzang Dorjee is unable to be there, he has honoured me/Tara's Babies with the opportunity to sign this document as the representative of our faith. This is truly a blessing.<br />The ceremony is not the end, but the beginning of profound change. The Proclamation will go on-line, and the intention is to have 1 million signatures with in the next 18 months. During this time, the faith representatives will travel and talk about compassion for animals. encouraging people to embrace the relationship between faith, humanity and kindness to beings. The process will culminate in an international convention with world religious leaders. How amazing.<br />I am not a faith leader, but I have the good fortune to have connected with a Teacher who has shown me from the inside out that compassion, kindness, truth and pure qualities will change the world. So I am glad to be able to be part of this process, and know that if I rely on that inner Truth of my teacher, I can be a vehicle of benefit. I have no sense right now of what the future will bring, but I do know it is a coming of age for Tara's Babies, in the breadth of Jetsunma's vision.<br />I am looking forward to meeting the founders of Best Friends; I just read the book about the first 25 years, and I have nothing but respect for their commitment and dedication.<br />On the home level, I am the joyful mother of the little dog now called Madelaine, who was part of our rescue from a kill shelter in Arkansas. Some adjustment happening amongst the troops, but really everyone is being good. She is so much smaller than my other three, but bouncing with happiness; Except if I raise my voice or move my arm in a certain way, then she cowers. i am sure she was abused. I look into her beautiful brown eyes, so brimming with love and think how could it be she was hurt, abandoned and then slated to be killed. This is the why every heart, every mind needs to open to that deep well spring of raw compassion, to which there is no end. </div>kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-46198940079418834402007-10-24T15:25:00.000-07:002008-12-10T18:27:47.720-08:00Honouring the heart<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5125034930640480754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbniIrTH-gEMD6qTh-5pW6Tzin28JxwtRPx4W_BIgWyksdN6DaIwbH4MFJKGZEjenMwQ8-U6LE2OFRMyVpqxyzey1JK0CjP-sdHJ02lmW6qCPI1Hen4qD0qaUJ1Gq6lJNrrTbK/s400/dog+killed+as+art.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div>This is a story that tore my heart open. When my friend Susan told me, I sat shocked in disbelief. </div><div>I cannot tell you the exact where's and when, but if you go to the link above, there is an explanation in Spanish.</div><div>What I do know from Susan, is that at an art exhibition in Costa Rica a dog was deliberately and consciously allowed to starve to death. In the name of 'art'. Apparently the artist saw it as a political statement about the country, or something. I was told he had some children find a dog on the streets. He tied it up in a corner of the gallery. It was left there, as an object to be viewed. It slowly died.</div><div>This is abhorrent beyond words. I cannot comprehend any part of this; that cruelty to animals could be accepted by one single person, let alone many.</div><div>We know cruelty against animals, women, children, lesbians and gays, 'the enemy' - any one we deem to be 'the other' and therefore OK to victimise - can occur. But somehow in such a public arena, condoned as 'art', takes it to a sickening level. That no-one cut the rope, in the name of humanity.</div><div>I invite you to sign the petition. I did. I want my voice to be heard, that the ripple of my breath may become a windstorm of change. For kindness. For thoughtfulness. For compassion. For caring. For a world where there is no place for cruelty. At all.</div><div>This is not the only <a href="http://www.fromtarasbabies.blogspot.com/">chilling image </a>I have witnessed and shared today. Look at them both. Then please, let each and every one of us make our lives vehicles of change. By practicing kindness to all those around us, large and small - every being. As an act of courage and compassion in a world of tragic decay. It is the gift we can offer to honour those who have suffered and died simply because the world forgets that we share one beating heart.</div>kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-12606610079539404762007-10-14T13:40:00.000-07:002008-12-10T18:27:47.965-08:00in silence there is song<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFOAk8CBQJNM0AHOIH1GTuOh7veWotNfjFQYFWxTV56ot85yAs2uMpQvEwGf_pAnuwmkHEEd15ElySCzjZMYiAsLkRLCNz2zbqWKdhYRwTGwYFGGaLVxtYkrghy3c50m84QqDE/s1600-h/mikegillam,+shifting+ground.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121298081459694002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFOAk8CBQJNM0AHOIH1GTuOh7veWotNfjFQYFWxTV56ot85yAs2uMpQvEwGf_pAnuwmkHEEd15ElySCzjZMYiAsLkRLCNz2zbqWKdhYRwTGwYFGGaLVxtYkrghy3c50m84QqDE/s400/mikegillam,+shifting+ground.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>Shifting Ground, by Mike Gillam, Central Australia</em></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="justify">It seems whatever words i find do not make it to this page. However, if you want to know where my time and heart have been, please read my other blog, <a href="http://fromtarasbabies.blogspot.com/">fromtarasbabies</a>. I cannot comprehend the endless suffering of this world.</div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify">And if you have ever wondered what the voice of enlightenment may sound like in this country, please listen to <a href="http://www.ourstage.com/entry/PFDMTRXZEJQV-cut-the-spell" target="_blank">Cut The Spell</a> by Jetsunma. This is the cadence of compassion, pure ripe and clear. Just what is needed right now.</div>kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-86594495544911981002007-10-05T21:34:00.000-07:002008-12-10T18:27:52.112-08:00Reflections of the ValleyWords sift and drift through my mind. Fleeting, they are gone. Here are some images from Dakini Vally. I am not the photographer, i am not sure who is - they were taken while I was away. I stumbled on their beauty today.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118080171702446338" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT01h6m78AWvYKjxTCDjrGdmG-81bR_z_oCM29YV0mntJ88lL-ieHlIJmdKY_u4V6vu-XVUlD1deYQiCk2dp69Z6c19GkEtx8oXrAqWyqc2H5cOozcmfC-U5z1Z0Ns066vO8Hn/s400/water+lily+Jetsunma%27s+pond.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118079158090164418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNE1MYwM6tMAADhhCxW33ghUUjYWkoSdXkMdYPVCF5ScRUWQTSRrmmPgkEkYvqVEroBjEqZ3nTjT2u937Gt6gqEg507lOiM4Zh3rH9rMhpcoiItH9uTmfIHa9qID0h1CN11Bcm/s400/Buddha+Jetsunma%27s+Deck+(2).jpg" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118079497392580818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcMEohDeIjc5l3JU9OalvNwpPsKBA-mET8XC8bDUdMYI76cFEIPTZiYHzonxhFti5b1qARlMyKj02Rhc1jkPIFkZAKb8VYXMoT1NkZCNCVtuU8hsDpqzX-WggBcvPZYj-A01ng/s400/prayer+room+yurt.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118080163112511714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaxt-znYMxIgE2Da0APiFP5C35B4ED7H7bqsfItmjLzzcLsplWLfeQpCSJsAoWFZ8v5C9_HBTfvLBhuig0UpjfMtFZR_VuuccPZc3Q5-_dMY9klt2JhmaaID2K6OSGmUL6iFf1/s400/prayer+flag.jpg" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118080167407479026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC_0hI4iehXwoDudev7I5VyPIxCezNVPQEeP5opztW4w74n15fvj0oTpTlbxucNT2T8tGnR3omsGiaos1FW9Bs0LMfy99DDrdKjWgzFcmOhL2Xg-bKiqLKuQztu07HNjZDeQZe/s400/thunderclouds.jpg" border="0" />kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35001925.post-84112203625104602432007-08-30T19:45:00.000-07:002008-12-10T18:27:55.889-08:00with blessing comes responsibility<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtRPKzMQg74KD5inK3JzQnrvwtWWaZ9dQUByG34NPcB0QXgJ2iWwCYn_2LJw2zHeUSdPCNimErBXGMdd13_kTjUqUdaGPtfEfv5ddCdJ6hhWrefBYLkVGvRVhsEkC69LG51yaM/s1600-h/HH+gives+empowerment.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5105035008795574274" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtRPKzMQg74KD5inK3JzQnrvwtWWaZ9dQUByG34NPcB0QXgJ2iWwCYn_2LJw2zHeUSdPCNimErBXGMdd13_kTjUqUdaGPtfEfv5ddCdJ6hhWrefBYLkVGvRVhsEkC69LG51yaM/s400/HH+gives+empowerment.jpg" border="0" /></a> <em>His Holiness Penor Rinpoche gives Empowerment</em></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiunaw_uHKvQBxUoCz7WAqVRoVu569lYEnbLW2c9zYuS8AXu5g9BaRTlNCTTDzVGvt6naX2qfqaS2DrHGVIl2yMXOypnpBRjrL7L1q8pM-cT_-8d1ZdYYnFYiWjEJnoNFRPIQ0/s1600-h/Karma+Kuchen+Rinpoche+and+Ani+Kunzang+(2).JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5104699713583677426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiunaw_uHKvQBxUoCz7WAqVRoVu569lYEnbLW2c9zYuS8AXu5g9BaRTlNCTTDzVGvt6naX2qfqaS2DrHGVIl2yMXOypnpBRjrL7L1q8pM-cT_-8d1ZdYYnFYiWjEJnoNFRPIQ0/s400/Karma+Kuchen+Rinpoche+and+Ani+Kunzang+(2).JPG" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><em>Meeting with Karma Kuchen Rinpoche, a revered Tulku </em></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><em>who will be our next lineage holder.</em></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><em>When I walked in the room, his kindness and gentleness </em></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><em>pervaded every cell of my body.</em></span></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">My heart cracked open just to be in his holy presence.</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">photo: George Lam</span></em></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"></span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">I keep waiting for that lull in time or mind to sit and write. It never is. Minutes, moments, hours days, roll and crest and time just is yet isn't. So now, I am no longer waiting, simply doing.</span></div><div align="center"><br /><br /></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Retreat was rich, textured. I arrived with a mind and heart weighted with an accumulation of tension, misery - burnt out and in despair. The week before I left, my only thought was to get there. I knew retreat with the blessings of HH Penor Rinpoche is the opportunity to feast on the potential of everything. It is the display of compassion alive in every moment, vivid. Teachings occurred every day - immeasurable blessings of wisdom - by Holiness and other Lamas, whose only thought is to help us awaken loving kindness, compassion, joy and equanimity from the depths of our heart.</span><br /><br /></div><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5104699069338582994" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivL-7wbJLPtvYAdgQTEKbewcVv2ld1kvUHte9yD7qIZHwHgvE9ur5oAMJqTfxqoHUYBDU7bsJlRVtEyhLMe0VUeD6NaF5VKxRaLkZ3qpwF-QcBOaJVYQTxmEdsXBs3RNYoqPdp/s400/Sang+offering.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="center"><em>Morning practice starts with a Sang or smoke offering, which</em><br /><em>Ani Tenzin did. Rigpai Dorje usually helped - </em><em>but on this cold wet morning</em><br /></span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><em>I was moral support!</em> </p></span><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">I worked hard; retreat is not a holiday, though it is far more enriching and refreshing than a week at the beach. I was up early and went back to the tent usually late, and filled each day as best I could with prayer and meditation, circumambulations of the Temple. It was my lifeline, I knew it, to secure my feet and heart to the place from which they were never really lost, I was just looking from the wrong angle.</span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Each day was different, though mostly the same format. There are 5 scheduled sessions each day, roughly 7-8am, 8.45 -10, 10.15-12, 2-4, 7-9pm. Times are flexible to some degree - depending on the class you are in, what else may arise. Three delicious cooked meals a day, and the time in between for work rota, relaxing, your own practice. Washing clothes!! I shared a tent in the forest with my friend Ani Tenzin, who was in our small group in Alice Springs, and still lives in Australia. We got to know each other so much better here (sharing a tent in the rain, long days???!!!), and it was wonderful to see her after about 5 years.</span></div><br /><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5104698596892180402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirOEICtvRiUiXYd8zfQYU4i26pQtUjyDfzCqwOOngkI8F9OatvutZv_muw7DU4rGkngCRnNd8HY53cKw9D13tUIwBcUkBjgz1jNht_wolRcY0UY82sGCujOGk6aQqWTJ0KiGb4/s400/retreat+hut.jpg" border="0" /><em>The small hut where my class met for 3 practice sessions every day. One monk </em><em>would point out any turkey or deer in the field when he arrived; </em><em>excellent sound effects for the turkey! </em></span><div align="center"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><em>At the end of each session every day we walked in a line back to </em><em>and circumambulated the Temple, c</em><em>hanting Om Mani Pedme Hung. </em></span></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">A wonderful, joyful completion. </span></em></div><div align="center"><br /> </div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">It is lovely to be with people joyfully committed to a path of compassion. There is laughter and friendship and help. You can be with others as much or as little as you want, and whatever you choose is respected.</span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">After about 10 days I felt myself relax and open, rivulets of peace and joy etched across the rigid surface of my mind. One things Holiness has stressed every year is to have faith, to have no doubt. I immersed myself in that this year, knowing there was nothing else to do. And the result is palpable - if we had before and after shots of my demeanour they would be proof positive that practice works!</span><br /></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"></span></div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"></span></div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"></span></div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"></span></div><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5104699421525901282" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiswJ4RKoGGwE7XXtosIf4N3Syyqz6ZyKkpXkU5Fh2o_9sWKrwThzU1vf7x5M4HRbGbMd-F74Q2QKPL8dX0_u7cIDrBUwabxyG-ZX1bI3ejQaySYa2TrZ3KLMlNO8j8J1qxJtHK/s400/Kunzang+at+07+retreat.jpg" border="0" /> </span><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">My work rota was Temple care, and included making the butter lamps that were available for offering in a small pagoda outside the main Temple. Mid-retreat, the mother of Bhutanese woman called Rinzin died, and Rinzin worked to ensure the lamps were filled and lit all the time. Many people helped her, and it was a delight to sit with her and make wicks, or fill the melted oil into the lamps, and experience her calm, gentle and irrevocable devotion to that which I am still learning to be. She grew up in it, with it - she said an American woman had asked her how she balanced a family, retreat, her practice. She told me she didn't have an answer - there was no question of balance; it is just how it is. I asked her about her father, she said he had left work and gone into solitary retreat in his fifties....such different parameters than those with which we are familiar.</span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /><br /></span></div><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5104698772985839554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVyqVv8CLye4vH7iIB2Zljy3PRKRuKMMINHQ5_Y5E-VwyQGcO2HrIMbfbAjC2La3RtbdgRg6Z-LINubohA2ckjkw7ikDQeYOORBxJg4l255MGqGXoip0Ae7ksopGMtjfgsTImC/s400/Rinzin+and+butterlamps.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="center"></span><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><em>Rinzin and the butter lamps</em><br /><br /></span></p><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">At the end of retreat I spent a day at our Temple in MD, and while I was there Jetsunma gave a teaching. I cannot explain the joy at seeing her face, feeling the warmth of her love. This was the perfect ending of the month, a teaching rich with wisdom and compassion, from the heart of my teacher. The title of this blog is part of what she offered us. I have the blessings, more than I can count; my prayer is to live them fully, deeply and with responsibility. For the end of suffering, for the opening of hearts, in a way that is not fixed or rigid, but soft, supple, graceful with joy. </span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"></span></div><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5104698274769633186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdVmk9u5JDfg8wRCq2IrYfDPwSVaFK1y8tVO-bTecty_o8bEM5HZbZ3GgeB4_Gx55dK6fpvot7RnluoAVVRIkKEyMUyw583kbXUGWqn9MsvxMKNEuVibMDDqCgrLC0027Zvk3j/s400/prayer+flags+in+mist.jpg" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5104696449408532322" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9oe-AVOnyswtD4pDkBeGhmYKn2Zas0-QD14zfSz5-CgQQTzhShKAszsxuNJf6ocbjqIgzOz5P4tVxXscT0s5byfgc3st-nAeWRTqzCqa8jnuT9SaO8HBZMLXLmtIfzc_0F2X4/s400/Main+temple.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5104697518855389042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkp6JX-nPWboro7XOZX8YygN7XvnDgsBCoycQTee-Z4o0-DIDsI1QNKMQhTKYBI6qceMcj38KlgmjqcJOc5vK6URJY1MpvWu9NjY8gZ6Zi2qWT8bzIcCfxB2lW1poZ2h2gBtHb/s400/inside+HH+Temple+NY.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5104697776553426818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6JZimwELmNd4xxNyzS82YpHAUwZ3vMVNqSi_3sxSSySQu6BoYLfDf2VlZmo2LtSUiWVakDwGRwLKbsIF5g2y5DRqwUnxtPoLEG7fRW4zPTLEJXetJwQjl1jyIBt3Jrx-tT0Ih/s400/Mandala+Altar+HH+NY.jpg" border="0" /> </span><br /><p align="center"><em><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5104698090086039442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtoBg7Jkqvse1UpSDMABe2wUHRpiZHcTdDlt7snu4ilTBMTeX3xBQacOCz1rnmY2fe5iPnPDUgyyISmFFGEXYePMncT7J-tCJOdmP8kq3RTDQq5wpWybPrzxR8okVkq5dePSI-/s400/Prayer+flags.jpg" border="0" /></span></em></p><br /><p align="center"><em><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">All photos bar the first one are thanks to </span><a href="http://tashideleg.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Thubten Rigpai Dorje</span></a><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">; </span></em><em><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">we had connected through our blogs, and finally met at retreat, where he took ordination as a monk.</span></em></p>kunzanghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04748009632919429499noreply@blogger.com4