from dakini valley

what's in a name?

2009-04-09T21:19:00.000-07:00

My name requires a lot of spelling aloud, multiple times. Often, on the phone, there is first a pause, and then "Could you spell that?" Not once, but two or three times. It is understandable; it is not a familiar name here in the west.

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.

Today I accidentally found a girl in Tibet with my name. A site 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.

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.

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.

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.

a great Teacher has passed from the world

2009-03-28T11:15:00.000-07:00

His Holiness Penor Rinpoche in Lhasa

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.

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.

He was the 11th Throneholder of the Palyul lineage, 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

At retreat a couple of years ago, at almost every morning teaching for a month, he reminded us to "have no doubt". 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.

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.

radical acceptance

2009-03-22T14:44:00.000-07:00

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’.

Friendship has always had the potential to ignore boundaries. 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 like swimming, girls and cars”, which was the beginning of the end.

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.

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. 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.

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 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.

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. No, I am sure she was, wearing black bathers like everyone else. It was days such as this that we knew together. 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 potency of dreams.

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.

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. Her words were not heavy with suffering, in fact they sparkled, vibrant, suffused with an eagerness for life and the happiness it can bring. 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.

Today’s Rigpa glimpse of the day echoed her words:

“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.”

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! 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.

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.

Perfect Teachers

2009-03-16T13:30:00.000-07:00

His Holiness Dudjom Rinpoche

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.
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.

a good day to smile

2009-03-11T15:12:00.000-07:00

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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.

absence and longing

2009-01-19T12:39:00.000-08:00

This is my first memory: 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.
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.

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.

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.
Jetsunma has spoken so beautifully and eloquently about this longing:

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.

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.

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.

Things are not the same as in 1959. 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.

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.

birthday greetings

2008-12-25T14:17:00.000-08:00

at two weeks old

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.

My sister Kate's 4th birthday

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!

With my mother getting ready for my party

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.

with my father, same day

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.

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.

picking flowers in our garden on my birthday

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.

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.

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?

Not me, not any more!

Family Snaps

2008-12-17T19:42:00.000-08:00

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.
Until the treats came out!!!!
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.
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.
Anyway, this is the full membership of Lucky's pack (see the post below for more). She seems content to be here.

Good Fortune and Lucky

2008-12-16T14:26:00.000-08:00

It 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.

wrinkles of life

2008-12-01T21:07:00.000-08:00

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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.

my beloved Nyima

a kiss from Madelaine, the AR rescue I adopted last year

smiling on retreat

2008-09-15T17:21:00.000-07:00

photo by Konchog

A snapshot from retreat...carrying the sacred texts on the Buddhist Holy Day, Chokhor Duchen. A beautiful ceremony, where we followed HH Karma Kuchen Rinpoche, and the other revered Tulku and teachers, around the perimeter of the retreat land. Accompanied by the sound of conch shells and other instruments, and melodic voices chanting.
Ani Miranda is in front of me, Ani Alyce-Louise behind. It was a wonderful, joyful event.

recognising the sacred

2008-09-07T13:01:00.000-07:00

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 continuously shifting relationship with the sacred.
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.
This year I had the great good fortune to be Co-ordinator 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 retreatants to keep the Temple clean, to prepare for teachings and empowerments, to assist in empowerments. The Temple is the foundation of retreat activity, so to care for it is to honour the source of countless blessings.
One of the greatest rewards for me is the chance to work closely with HH 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 Dharma, each other. There is no question, their devotion is seamless. Recognition of the sacred is not something assumed, it is who they are.
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.
At the top of this post is an image of a Stupa, 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 Sedona, Arizona, and is exquisite. The image of Amitabha, the Buddha of Limitless Light, who vowed to help all who prayed to him, looks out across the rugged red rocks.
Like every Stupa, 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.

This Stupa, 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.
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.
At retreat I was exposed to the certainty of the sacred, and its power. This Stupa 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.

the gift of kindness

2008-07-08T19:54:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 here - that is BaiBai on the home page.

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....

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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 tarasbabies@earthlink.net.

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.

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.

distinguishing light in the dark

2008-04-03T16:26:00.000-07:00

Jetsunma teaching

at Dakini Valley, Fall 07

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 prayer vigil 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.

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.

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.

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.

Surrender and Defeat

2008-02-10T19:36:00.000-08:00

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.
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.
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

In a teaching on fearlessness (Shambhala Sun March 02) Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche said that as warriors embarking on a path of fearlessness, "We begin to feel that the we are dealing with a rich world, one that never runs out of messages." Recognising these messages in every moment of mindfulness allows apparent defeat to be the foundation of true surrender.

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.

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 Dragmar Tulku Rinpoche- himself recognised as an emanation of this deity. This is an indescribable treasure to appear in my life.

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.

bewilderment

2008-01-19T17:23:00.000-08:00

courtesy bigfoto.com

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.

Yesterday upon the stair

I met a man who wasn't there.

He wasn't there again today,

Oh! How i wish he'd go away.

(apologies to Norman Lear if my memory is awry)

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.

words in the dust

2008-01-12T16:10:00.000-08:00

Australian sandstorm

photo courtesy bigfoto.com

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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.

a request - or two

2008-01-08T21:46:00.000-08:00

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.

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 sign it. 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.

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!)

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.

So my more computer-savvy friends said to me.... "Ask! People who are in that world of computers upgrade all the time". 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.

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!).

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.

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!

Well, there it goes -- out into the ether. Email me at dakinivalley@myway.com 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.

And either way, may each and every one of you have a rich and abundant year!

bag ladies

2007-12-24T14:57:00.000-08:00

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.

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 feel 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....

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

raw tenderness

2007-12-01T16:24:00.000-08:00

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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.

proclaiming compassion

2007-11-04T23:10:00.001-08:00

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 Religious Proclamation for Animal Compassion. 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.

Honouring the heart

2007-10-24T15:25:00.000-07:00

This is a story that tore my heart open. When my friend Susan told me, I sat shocked in disbelief.

I cannot tell you the exact where's and when, but if you go to the link above, there is an explanation in Spanish.

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.

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.

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.

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.

This is not the only chilling image 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.

in silence there is song

2007-10-14T13:40:00.000-07:00

Shifting Ground, by Mike Gillam, Central Australia

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, fromtarasbabies. I cannot comprehend the endless suffering of this world.

And if you have ever wondered what the voice of enlightenment may sound like in this country, please listen to Cut The Spell by Jetsunma. This is the cadence of compassion, pure ripe and clear. Just what is needed right now.

Reflections of the Valley

2007-10-05T21:34:00.000-07:00

Words 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.

with blessing comes responsibility

2007-08-30T19:45:00.000-07:00

His Holiness Penor Rinpoche gives Empowerment

Meeting with Karma Kuchen Rinpoche, a revered Tulku

who will be our next lineage holder.

When I walked in the room, his kindness and gentleness

pervaded every cell of my body.

My heart cracked open just to be in his holy presence.

photo: George Lam

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.

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.

Morning practice starts with a Sang or smoke offering, which
Ani Tenzin did. Rigpai Dorje usually helped - but on this cold wet morning
I was moral support!

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.

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.

The small hut where my class met for 3 practice sessions every day. One monk would point out any turkey or deer in the field when he arrived; excellent sound effects for the turkey!

At the end of each session every day we walked in a line back to and circumambulated the Temple, chanting Om Mani Pedme Hung.

A wonderful, joyful completion.

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.

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!

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.

Rinzin and the butter lamps

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.

All photos bar the first one are thanks to Thubten Rigpai Dorje; we had connected through our blogs, and finally met at retreat, where he took ordination as a monk.

safe harbour

2007-07-06T08:19:00.000-07:00

Sydney Harbour - courtesy Sydney Morning Herald

I leave today for one month retreat in upstate New York; only the kindness of my Teacher and my friends has made this even possible. I have no idea what it will be like - this will be my fifth year of attendance, and each time is so very different. What I do know, without a doubt, is that it is an extraordinary blessing, no matter how it 'feels' to me. Right now, I know I need to be nourished deeply, and that this is the only place for me to be. It is my safe harbour, as the sea has been stormy and the boat rocking.

I probably won't do a post until I return mid -August, though who knows- if a computer comes my way, perhaps I will. The month stretches before me an open canvas, and I am not even trying to determine its colours or textures.

So wherever you are - on the road, in a tent, in your home, at the beach, with your family, with your cat or your dog, may each and every one of you also find safe harbour: not just today, or tomorrow or next year, but deeply and fully within your heart.

gentling of the heart

2007-07-03T16:46:00.000-07:00

The last few weeks, moments, days, months - even the measurement of time is so ephemeral - have often been difficult for me. There have been periods in this last year where the very act of breathing has sometimes felt like a challenge. There are many reasons i can offer - ordinary and spiritual - for the ebb and flow of my life, yet ultimately none of them in and of themselves means a lot. When the day is heavy, i try and wade through it, to reach the other end, knowing my heart is still beating, and that beat, no matter how it feels, is the rhythm of compassion and wisdom. Merely muted to my deafened ears.

Two blogs I read this week have scratched my thoughts. One, by Stephen, is tender and reflective, a most intimate offering, of yearning for his children who are lost to him, one through death, one through her choice. His words are steeped in love that defy time or even mortal existence; more subtle than simple memory, they reflect bonds that are so intimate yet invisible they cannot be defined. I have never had children, though not by choice - I longed and tried for many years - yearning for that which never bore fruit; in a sense, perhaps, I tasted a little of the pain and anguish, over and over again. The final decision to cease any attempts was tortuous, for I had to relinquish a longing, the roots of which were deep in my heart. I have moved on from that place long ago, but through that process I briefly glimpsed the foundation of love for a parent to their child.

I know nothing of the circumstances of Stephen's or his daughter's lives, but his post made me think of times I turned from my parents. Bitter, blameful, angry, resentful - an array of negative emotions that swiftly constructed an inflamed wall where once there had been love. As is so often the case, my reasons seemed valid - my life and theirs were aligned to different circumstances, values, point of views and I reacted to this by turning my heart and my life away. I know this was painful for them, but I refused to see that. Most especially in the case of my mother, for whom this was a more frequent occurrence, I know it was a sword in her heart. We danced back and forth at times, then I would withdraw all contact and she would beg for even acknowledgement that I was safe and well. Often I ignored her pleas. I weep for this now - for those times when the hardness of my rebellious heart caused anguish to someone whom I know loved me deeply, always - no matter how things were playing out in our lives.

Even in the months preceding her death from cancer, when I lived with my parents and helped nurse my mother, our roles reversed, a deep anger burst forth, and I felt justified - she laying in bed - to blame her for things in my life for which I held her responsible. Momentarily I felt release, but of course the dynamic between us was deeply entrenched, and although she blanched at my wrath, it passed and I questioned what I had accomplished. Venting my anger brought no relief to me, and only added a layer of pain to her suffering. I am so grateful we still had weeks to share, and that our final moments were bathed in love for each other, not grievous hate.

Juxtaposed in my mind to these reflections is Edamommy's post on compassion for those we may wish to hate, or feel anger towards. This can be tough, because, as with my mother, anger can feel justified. People do things which harm us, sometimes horrendous things, and the self-righteous shutters in which we hide our hearts are stiff with judgment, so its easy to leave them closed, and instead respond with venom or blame or simply turn, forever. But each and every time we turn away, and we keep the shutters closed, we are really turning from ourselves, from the open and gentle kindness that is who we truly are. We gain nothing, and lose so much. If we can teach ourselves to respond instead with even one simple breath, one heartbeat, one fleeting thought of compassion, we will have softened our hearts, as the sweetness of gentle rain softens the parched drought-hardened earth.

Compassion is not out there, it is not something we need to create. It is who we are, what we are. The ease with which we offer it to some - the sorrowful stories which touch our hearts - and not others - the people we think don't deserve it - is a reflection only of the constructs of our world. Compassion itself has neither boundaries nor distinctions - that is its potency and gift to each and every single being. The judgments we use to determine where it should be offered are misplaced and misguided. And tragic. For every time the heart stays closed, we have lost an opportunity to know a kindness that has no limitations.

The habits are deep, and our society tends to reinforce them. They run so deep that we even learn to hate and blame and judge ourselves; I struggled painfully with bulimia for over a decade, my life continuously tortured with self-hatred. For this I blamed my mother as she lay dying.

There is no-one to hate or blame, not ourselves, not others. If we listen and look deeply we will see this truth, for it runs in our veins, it whispers in our hearts. It yearns for us to see and hear, as a parent yearns for the child who is lost. It will never cease to call us, to be present in our lives, not ever. It is my heart and yours, it is every heart. When we know and share this, and no longer turn away in blame or judgement, then the suffering that separates you from me will vanish, the walls of hatred crumble and the well-spring of boundless compassion quench every aching heart.

melody of compassion

2007-06-17T20:56:00.000-07:00

Jetsunma Ahkon Lhamo

There are moments in our lives when you know that today is not the same as yesterday, and that consequently tomorrow will not look as it might have done. Actually, life is always like this, but so often I stumble through with little or no understanding of the depth and breadth of impermanence.
One thing we all share, with absolute certainty, is that each breath, while being the source of life, also brings us closer to death. There is no turning back, no putting it on hold. Nothing. At some point we will breathe our last breath and be lost from the world that we cling to. All that we have held dear will no longer be ours, and even the tears of those that love us most deeply will not be salve to the final wound of death.

For so many of us, the process of dying and the moment of death may not come easily. Our minds may be filled with fear, with regret, with anger, with grief. It is after all the separation from all that is familiar, including the very bodies that have carried us forward, year after year.

Many of us, especially those of us who have lived for more years than now lay before us, have probably experienced death in some form - colleagues, family, parents, children, pets. I remember the process of my mother dying quite vividly, although I was not with her at that final moment, I had nursed her for some months and lived with and through so much of her pain, denial, regret, anguish. Fortunately, her last moments with me before she fell into a coma were light and joyful, a gift that soothed both my mind and hers.

There seems so little we can do as we watch our those that we love - people and animals alike - slip from our life and theirs; no hand grip is strong enough to pull them back over the precipice. We can bathe them, and read to them, and ease their pain, and care for them in any and every way possible. And we do. But so often we wish we could do more.

We can.

I spoke at the beginning of this post about those moments in life when the fabric is re-woven, the pattern re- shaped. Such a moment has occurred, most directly in my life, but because my life and yours are connected through our hearts, also in yours.

This week my beloved teacher Jetsunma offered us a gift beyond measure; it is a prayer, a lullaby of compassion, the tune of which arose from the depths of her heart, that beats always and only for the benefit of others. The words are a traditional Tibetan prayer for those who are dying, but the tune is extraordinary, lovely, comforting; it is the cadence of compassion itself. If we could put our ears to the seashell of hope and love, of all the goodness we wish for others, if we could record the prayers of every being who has passed from our lives, if we could hear the echo of clarity and wisdom, if we could recognise the sound of our very own hearts, as they cry out for the end of all suffering, this is what we would hear.

Having brought this prayer to the world, amidst the chaos and busy-ness of NYC, Jetsunma's wish is to share it, as far and wide as our thoughts can stretch, and beyond to that place we all seek through our lives. It is not about being Buddhist, or embracing our faith, it is simply about opening our hearts to receive this gift in the way it was intended, founded in unconditional love, like that of a mother for her child.

This prayer is especially for those who are dying, so to play it in a hospice, or as someone passes from this life, or where animals may be killed, is very potent; it will comfort them in ways we may not be able to see or measure, but nonethless are there. It is available free as a CD.

There is so much in life we are unsure of or hesitant about, but please don't let this be one of them. I do not pretend to understand the true wealth inherent in this prayer, but having listened to it again and again as I type on the keyboard, I know it is a melody that flows in my blood, that permeates my pores; I know this tune from before time and space existed, because it is the sound of every beating heart that ever did or could exist. Compassion has no boundaries, yet it will appear in shapes and sounds and forms we recognise, like drifing clouds that appear so robust and solid, yet dissipate into space. This prayer is the echo of the compassion in our hearts.

So whatever your faith or beliefs - if you have ever wished for a better world, for the end of pain, that your loved ones may pass from this life into a place of kindness and joy, please listen and share this gift. So that where there is hardship, there may be comfort. That where there is fear, there may be courage. That where hope is lost, it will again be found. And that at the final moment, when we are so alone, we shall all be bathed by perfect compassion, and know the truth of our hearts.

Lucky is!

2007-06-15T11:51:00.000-07:00

Sound and movement in the valley are shifting with the season. The sycamores are laden with green; walking beneath their canopy, along the edge of tumbling water, my ears overflow with incessant buzzing of bees. Activity, life, renewal. The garden is blossoming, and this year, for the first time, butterflies in many shades are feasting on the red and yellow blanket flowers. As I walk by, they arise in a swirling of cream, yellow, white. The finches chatter outside the window near the computer; I love these tiny birds! The wind swells and abates, the chimes following suit.
So - it seems that dear little Lucky had the karma to come here, after all. Following her first escape and rescue, literally, from a coyote attack as it occurred ( the story brings chills to my spine), she escaped again. I received a frantic call from her foster carer, concerned for her well being; she had chewed through several leashes. Options of transport were explored, as the solution needed to be immediate. In the end Sam headed off on a 16 hour round trip journey, to the CA border. Lucky didn't travel in a crate, but lay happily on the seat.

I have spent some time with her; hard to describe, but there is something special about this old dog. She is content here - has made no attempt to escape, stays in the quiet of the dog garden, but surrounded by sounds and activity no doubt familiar to her from her outdoors life in Taiwan. I don't knows what the future will bring - who ever does - but I , too, am content to sit with her and stroke her toughened hairless skin, and say mantra to her. Her presence, her stillness, her gentleness, and gratitude to be safe and alive, are the gift she offers to us. Her story somehow encapsulates so much of what we all strive to do in our lives - to see where there is need, and act from the core of our hearts. Multiply that again and again, and the very planet itself will be renewed with joy and life and hope.

many paths, one journey

2007-06-08T15:32:00.000-07:00

A week ago today I crossed a great swathe of treeless land, heading to the ocean. I travelled with Sam, our on-site dog carer, in a massive white van; our mission was to finally meet the dogs of Ms Wu, whose stories and faces have already brought tears to my eyes. I loved the journey; those desolate mountains rising from the earth, barren yet ripe - to my eyes - with potential: a sense of spaciousness, enormity. I told Sam I could live on one of those mountains tops, and look from yesterday to tomorrow and beyond; he laughed, and said he would rather be eaten alive by ants, or something similar - he likes lush humidity. But I am drawn to those landscapes where nothing evokes the promise of everything. I have crossed the Nullabor (tr: no tree) Plain in Australia - which is famous for the longest straight stretch of road in the world - several times, mile after mile of the very same view. There it's pretty much flat - though extraordinarily, at some spots if you deviate but a short distance, you meet the stark edge of the continent, which truly is a sheer drop into the ocean, like a great piece of land bitten off and cast away, the sea roiling hundreds of feet below. So the appearance of drab flatness belies what is really close by, simply hidden.

It was evening time as we courted the edge of civilisation. We stopped once for a real home-made pizza, but there was nowhere to stay, so we drove on, my eyes panning the exits for safe harbour. I spied a very low-key place, the American Inn, in a setting that would not rate reviews. Perched at the edge of the freeway, old and worn, perhaps seedy. But it was cheap, and the clerk was friendly, and, it tuned out, German. I lived in Germany for some years, and love the language and the country - still sometimes feel homesick for that culture. Better still, I had visited his hometown, so there was a shared journey, a connect of our past.

Appearances are so superficial; in fact, the room was lovely: old, but immaculately clean and welcoming, just perfect. However, it was early the next morning we discovered that the narrow dead end street of a few plain, small homes contained some jewels. Kwan Yin, the Chinese Bodhisattva of compassion stood just a few doors way, eternally pouring her compassion forth from a jar in her hand, and next to her, magnificent cactus flowers. The Guru was there, we were sure.

We hit LA proper some hours before the flight, and, when close to LAX, randomly detoured off the freeway to find breakfast. We found ourselves in a nice part of town - cute houses being renovated, lush yards, beautiful windswept trees. And a French cafe! We pulled into a side street, and walked back. There, next door to the cafe, was a white picket fence garlanded with red and white flowers - the colours of Bodhicitta, or awakened compassion. We looked up - prayer flags flying in the breeze. We knew the Guru was there.

After breakfast we headed for the ocean; I have not seen the sea up close for more years than I remember, though I grew up splashing in its brisk salty welcome. We took off our shoes, and my toes remembered warm sand.

Santa Monica beach was greyed by clouds as was the water that stretched to kiss the horizon, frills of foam dotted with surfers in wetsuits. Sam wandered into the water, i stood further back and allowed the space and the air and the sand and the water to hold me; i looked around and recited the Seven Line prayer to the Guru, there was nothing else to say.

Finally, our destination loomed and we were at the airport, circling in the loop, trying to find our bearings. The wait was long, but suddenly there were two luggage trolleys laden with dog crates, and I cried, "There they are!" and smiled, as the airport guys relentlessly moved on and out and up to the curbside, unstopping. I looked at them all, smiling greetings. Mostly they looked saucer-eyed and unsure. I searched out Lucky - although not coming to us, she remains for me the signature dog of this event, epitomising Ms Wu's love and dedication for bringing life where there was nearly death; somehow she has a corner of my heart. She was thinner, older than her picture suggested - all grey whiskers. I gave her biscuits and said "Om mani pedme hung" - the mantra of Compassion, again and again. This may have been the one moment i ever have with her, I wanted it to be the gift of her life.

The extraordinarily kind men that escorted these dogs were executives from an international company - they had flown first class, but had generously spent 2 hours in customs on behalf of these dogs. They passed on documentation and pineapple cakes from Ms Wu!!

So at 4.30 pm, van filled with dogs, we turned westward, from chaos and sea to the silence of the desert.

We drove straight through the night, our passengers silent, sleeping. They awoke, I am sure, for the last bumpy hour and a half on the corrugated washboards of forest service roads. It was 4.30am when we arrived - the hillsides softened by moonlight and the suggestion of dawn. The others here for the event got up to meet us, and we carried the crates into the newly built dog gardens. Then, one by one, we opened their doors. It was not easy for most of them to come out - the fear and strangeness of a journey that had begun in a foreign country,with sounds and smells now torn away. They were timid, scared of the newness. Eyes still large, questioning the loss of the familiar. Gingerly they came out, and looked around and, after a brief time, we tethered them, at Ms Wu's request, to ensure their safety.

Now they are settling in, and play and explore together when we are there. We still keep them tethered when unsupervised, a decision I do not regret at all. This morning I received a phone call from someone who said she had found my lost dog in Ramada Hills. Confused, I questioned her. Lucky!! Ms Wu had been scrupulous in her organisation, and had put my name and number on every dog. Lucky had escaped over a day ago, unbeknowns to me, and had just been caught by a very kind woman. She has been injured by coyotes, but not too badly. i was so distressed to hear this, but grateful she was found. With a few phone calls, I tracked down the lady who had taken her - also extremely distraught, and who had no idea how Lucky could have even got out of the yard; she had been desperately searching for her. She told me what a lovely, dignified old dog she is.

It's a miracle Lucky survived a coyote attack, given her age and frailty. Last night we did a Tsog practice - a ceremony where we offer food and prayers for the nourishment and end of suffering of all. I offered Ms Wu's pineapple cakes on behalf of her and her beloved dogs; it was after this Lucky was found. I am sure the Guru was there.

Our Taiwan Babies are gorgeous - smaller than I imagined, and just delightful. I hope we find them all homes very soon. And then I hope we save all of Ms Wu's dogs; I read on a website that Taiwan is considered one of the worst places in the world for animals.

So their journey began across the ocean, and joined ours, which began across a desert.

On the way I was reminded again and again that the journey is not about the apparent beginning and the end, it is each moment. Each moment contains the seed and fruition of the entire journey, if we stop to look and breathe, and know with our hearts. This was a journey of compassion embraced by many people, including strangers we met on the way, and it began before I was born and will be a path trodden by many, long after my bones have blended with dust. In just 2 days I traversed more than the landscape, my eyes and heart were opened to the possibility that every breath, every view, every second contains that place of refuge we all seek, and we all share.

qaStaH nuq?

2007-05-20T08:29:00.001-07:00

Before the wrath of Katrina washed lost dogs into Dakini Valley, altering its texture forever, I lived here on my own. For the most part, anyhow - although one is never truly alone, if you open your eyes, ears and heart. Certainly my beloved Gypsy Rose was a living tangible presence who helped me through some tough times.

In the second year of my residence, another ordained came to live here for a period of time, as a fix-it guy; an incredibly handy and kind monk. Although we had different roles and tasks to accomplish, we worked together whenever was needed. We both wished to maintain the beauty of Jetsunma's retreat home, and recognise the sacredness of the Valley. At the beginning it was a wonderful time, but one of the potencies of this Valley is that it brings forth aspects of yourself that might otherwise lie hidden. It amplifies the clutter and reactions of the mind, so you can see and taste them more clearly. On top of that, in those days life here was very basic - no electricity, no phone, certainly no Internet access. It was a challenging environment in many ways. And although as ordained, we perhaps try and be more conscious of our behavior and view, having robes also helps to ripen circumstances and reactions, as with a magnifying glass.

So over time our relationship soured, to a place of tension, discomfort and certainly not one of friendship. For my part, in retrospect, I understand the degeneration a little better now, the aspects of myself that contributed to the decay of kindness. But at the time, as is so often the case, we were simply embroiled in a dance that brought no-one benefit.

Jetsunma came on retreat at some point during this, and of course was aware from the moment she arrived - before even seeing either of us - that something at the Valley was terribly wrong. To my heartbreak, she said that it was the first time she had come to the Valley and felt sad; and the cause of that was my lack of devotion. When her attendant passed this on to me, I was stunned. I cannot describe how it felt - shock, horror, anguish. My heart torn out. The realisation that I had no idea what devotion truly is, nor that it can be absent and you be unaware of its disappearance. It has nothing to do with what anything looks like from the outside, and is so subtle that even inside it can fall into a dark crevasse and you never know. I did not doubt for one second that it was true - because the greatest blessing in my life is Jetsunma, and I know and trust her in a way that transcends any relationship of this world. She is my breath, my thought, my awareness, my life. Through her presence in my world, I have begun to learn about the truth of existence in a language without expression, but one of absolute certainty and clarity because it is inscribed on every cell of this, my body.

Jetsunma - in her boundless kindness - on hearing of the tension that had manifested between us put some very practical solutions in place, as well as passing on messages to us both. She moved me down to live in the original homesteaders cabin, so that we had space from each other. When I thanked her, sobbing, for showing me how hard and dry my heart had become, she said "I want you back. It shows you what a difference one heart can make."

The other instruction - told to me 3 times, to make sure i really got it - was that I was to watch videos. Not teaching, Dharma videos, but movies; things to make me relax, to soften my rigid mind. It may seem like an odd request, but that is the magnificence of a teacher as pure as Jetsunma, that you can be sure whatever it is she offers, it is the only thing to do.

I think it can be challenging for us in the west to understand the Vajrayana or Tibetan Buddhist path, which pivots on - and only on - the relationship between student and teacher. This is the foundation and the source of accomplishment of everything. And it may not look 'spiritual' as we would like to comfortably define it - practice, prayers, contemplation of teachings. It will simply look like whatever is needed and appropriate, and that can be anything.

So, I diligently watched videos from Jetsunma's collection here - and it was fun! I have never been much of a movie goer, and of course had taken my 'spiritual path' pretty seriously; now I could let my non-existent hair down, and feel OK about it. Not all of the movies were maybe my taste, yet as they were from Jetsunma's personal library, each was food for thought.

What quickly became my favorite was the massive collection of Star Trek, Deep Space Nine; I soon became a resident there, knowing the people and places as if it were my hometown. I savoured each episode, enjoying the script, the visuals and most especially the thought provoking story lines: about time, space, reality, existence, conflict, race - often providing a contemplation that followed the contours of the Buddhist Path, without being an overt, traditional teaching. I loved it, watching them in random order, so that early episodes would arise after later ones, proving how it had developed over time into a rich community where actors seemed to become their characters. My favorites (for any DS9 trekkies) were perhaps the fringe dwellers, who displayed facets and edges of personality that defied simple categorisation: Quark, Ducat, Garrick (apologies for spelling inaccuracies). Something about them - the fact that on the surface they may seem unpleasant or untrustworthy, yet certain situations would prove the complexity of who they were: that there is no simple good or bad in anyone, but layers of habit and potential.

Worf, too - the mighty Klingon warrior, struggling astride the divide of culture and history that was never easy to reconcile. How many times is that played out in real life, as we try to come to terms with how we have been brought up, what we feel, how we now live and who we choose to walk this life with. Day in, day out we have opportunities to see and learn ourselves as complex beings, with trembling, confused hearts, trying to make sense of our lives.

The phrase at the beginning of this post, which I laughingly discovered on edamommy's contemplative blog, where Buddhism is explored in many ways, may have been written by Worf himself, as a method to uncurl the hardened corners of his heart. It is the mantra of Chenrezig, om mani pedme hung, written in Klingon! I loved discovering this, because it opens every door, blurs the lines, makes you think. And invites you to simply laugh. Nothing is fixed, nothing is real. The potency of Chenrezig and the compassion he displays will permeate time and space in possible and impossible ways. Nothing is immune - no race, no language, no country - whether they exist or not, it doesn't matter. The possibility and potential is ever present, everywhere, all the time. Right now, as you breathe: there it is. That's the joy!

Watching the videos was a process of contemplation and devotion on many levels, beyond my understanding. I learned a little more about myself, about the breadth this spiritual path encompasses, of needing to soften and relax so that the rigid chinks of what I believe to be true, or just so, can break apart. The armour of resistance or supposition or unarguable definition or 'i am right' with which we clothe ourselves on a daily basis, often has nothing to do with the essence of compassion and wisdom that is our true nature. But we don't see that, because we live inside it and just accept it to be our reality. It isn't. Somehow seeing that precious mantra in Klingon is a tease, reminding us not be be fixed in our views of what is possible. Because anything is.

the diamond of gratitude

2007-05-14T11:00:00.001-07:00

The chain of hearts has blossomed. Not only with the kind comments on this blog, for which I thank you, but Melanie's dedicated search found someone in LA who was wanting to adopt one or two of Ms Wu's dogs, preferably an older dog; she read the last post, and is in love. It hasn't been finalised yet, but what a wonderful unfolding; I will let you know of the progress.

When I emailed Ms Wu to follow up on Tooky's questions, this is what she said. Apparently Lucky is a she!
It seems right when I named her Lucky. I think she would be afraid of cold weather in winter. I never put clothes on her coz it’s not too cold in winter here. She must had suffered a lot before she showed up in my school. She has to be taught to live inside a house. She’s always been friendly and enjoyed the sunshine in corner quietly. She never barks loudly, and only leans towards me at meals with excitement. In general, she’s a tender dog with good behavior who never causes any trouble.
I think I am in love, too!! It did cross my mind what my 3 would think, but LA is much better, not only due to the cold of winter, I would also worry about rattlers, and besides I have to let my heart love them all!!
Tia's comment also reminded me that I haven't thanked everyone for helping us secure the land on which we will build a beautiful, sustainable animal sanctuary. I know some of you were able to make cash donations, and others held us in your thought and prayers. To every one of you, i say thank you. I cannot articulate what this means, it is a gift of life, hope and awakening, for each and every one of us.
When I was young, my mother made me write thank you cards; a task I resisted and whined about, especially for gifts I didn't especially like - why thank them for That! She, however was adamant, and so i chewed my pen and wrote " Dear Aunty.....". I also had to write thank you's to school comrades for birthday party invitations, regardless of it was someone i liked. It seemed an odorous, endless task.
However, now that I have passed the age my mother was when she enforced this rule, i understand the power of thank you. It doesn't matter what the gift or event was, or if I enjoyed it, it is an expression of gratitude for the thoughtfulness of the giver, for the kindness of the heart.
This was brought vividly alive for me through the work of Masuru Emoto on the effects of prayer and positive thought and words on the crystal formation of water; you can see the difference that occurs....how extraordinary. Here is his response to the question of whether he had discovered a particular word or phrase that best helped the natural waters of the world:
"Yes. There is a special combination that seems to be perfect for this, which is love plus the combination of thanks and appreciation, reflected in the English word gratitude. Just one of these is not enough. Love needs to be based in gratitude, and gratitude needs to be based in love. These two words together create the most important vibration. "
The purity and beauty of the crystal, as seen above, mirror the effect on our hearts, and the world, when we respond with love and gratitude to the thoughtful words and acts of others. It becomes a gift reciprocated - fluid, boundless. It is a gift that takes little effort, and yet its value is immeasurable. We, too, consist so much of water - imagine these diamonds in our cells!
I am grateful to my mother for engraving this idea in my mind, although it has taken decades to recognise its value! But that is the magnificence of even the smallest gift of kindness - it ripples through our lives, shedding jewels at unexpected moments, sometimes in dark, neglected corners of ourselves. To be able to say thank you is a blessing and a promise, it reflects the space in which something of benefit was received, and becomes the space for such a gift to again be welcomed, perhaps by someone else. The lines between the giver and receiver are blurred, there is simply the pure and perfect vibration of gratitude, which describes the hearts of us all.

the second miracle

2007-05-09T14:53:00.000-07:00

Lucky

I want to share a story that has broken my heart open, a story of one person who has made an immeasurable difference to a corner of the world that many of us may never visit.

A couple of weeks ago I was contacted by Melanie - a kind-hearted spirit, whose reason for getting our of bed in the morning is to be of benefit to animals in need. This is not her day job - this is the voice of compassion which exists in us all, yet sometimes we are deaf to it. She has listened, and acted. She contacted Tara's Babies about 30 dogs in Taiwan who will be killed if homes are not found. Her call touched my heart, and I spontaneously said yes, to ten - how could I not, because the vivid story of selflessness that is unfolding around me makes me catch my breath with inspiration.

The dogs in Taiwan are housed in a dog garden in a school yard. Lucky, whose picture no doubt shocked you as it did me, is one of these dogs. Ms Wu, a teacher at the school, cannot bear the suffering of animals, and two years ago set up an animal rescue, operating from the school. She finds dogs in terrible condition - sometimes one heartbeat from death, as Lucky was - and nurtures them with love, tenderness, vet care, and food. She teaches them to trust, to know that people can love as well as harm. When ready, she takes them to adoption parties, where hopefully they find loving forever homes.

It is an amazing display of courage and dedication - some of the stories of catching the animals show her determination to bridge that stream of distrust and terror that separates dogs on the street from a future home. She does this, because her heart allows her no option, but to act when there is terrible need.

But, Ms Wu's dogs are no longer safe - they are tied to the railroad track of impending change, and the locomotive is bearing down fast; Ms Wu is going to retire, and the Principal has said the dogs will be euthanised. Saved once, and having learned to recognise love and trust, their lives will be cut short. This is what Melanie cannot let happen, and neither can I.

Ms Wu writes touching stories from the dogs perspective - here is a little of what Lucky has to say:

I am waiting for the second miracle in my life.

I was lying down at my last gasp in front of Yang Mei Senior High School, simply wanted to bask in the sun for the last time. On the verge of death, I was gently held in a pair of warm arms, which brought me to the dog house. I heard someone talking tenderly, and was given a bowl of meat and some clean water.

Then I went to the hospital and was told that I’ve got a serious folliculitis, which has damaged my cortex. The doctor was not very optimistic about my condition. However, mummy Jia-jen kept her hopes up— after all, I could still eat a little bit. She started to feed me lots of nutriment twice a day.

It’s about half a year before the crust of my wounds began to fall, and the jet-black hair started to grow. Although my hair would never be as thick as normal dogs, it’s a whale of difference comparing to the outfit I’d got when I was homeless. I feel getting better not only physically but also mentally. I relax a bit when I get along with mummy, and hum in a good mood when she takes me out.

I walk about freely in the dog farm and get on with other dogs peacefully. I have gotten used to stay quietly in a corner to avoid unnecessary bully for one year and a half.

I am about nine years old now, my hair won’t be able to grow completely due to the necrosis; therefore, I probably will not even have a slight chance to get a new home. Mummy says to me gently: ‘Sh, don’t you worry about it. I promise to take care of you to make up for what you have suffered.’ However, she could not keep her words anymore, because here comes the new principal and the dog farm is forced to close along with the mummy’s retirement. She could not bring me home since she’s already got ten dogs.

I never hate any person or dog, and just want to stay in the corner belonging to me. I have no other wishes but to bask in the sun, however the wish of simply being alive does not seem to come true easily.
I really long for the second miracle taking place sometime soon— somebody could take care of me while I am old and ailing like a candle guttering in the wind, and bring me the love I once had but will lose soon. Oh my dear lord, please tell me, is it really going to happen?

Ms Wu is worried for all her dogs, so the ten she has chosen to come to Dakini Valley are healthy and adoptable - she sees a good future for them, and says, " You even give a hand generously to me who is far away in foreign country; it’s been so lucky for those ten dogs who can be reborn in Tara ’s Babies. I won’t worry about them anymore in future, since I know that they would rest in a warm harbour. I can’t express how I feel with words right now" . What an unimaginable choice to have make - who will live, who may die - for beings you have nurtured and nourished from death already.

I asked her about Lucky: "He doesn’t like barking or exercising, neither does he cause too much troubles. I wish Lucky could have a happy life in the U.S. Lucky does not have much hair even though I’ve been feeding him nutrition food. The doctor says that the his hair follicles have died. He would still need continuous medication and observation once he gets there. I am not sure if it is OK with you or would it cause too much trouble?

I want to save Lucky, but worry that with his hairless old body, he would find our winters too cold; until we build our new shelter, we have nothing appropriate to offer. So this is my plea - some of you live in places that are warm, where the air is softened with moisture, and the sun shines. Or your relatives live in this climate. And you have friends and neighbours who live in your street, your town, 50 miles away. And some of them have a yard where an old dog could rest. And they are willing to tend to the needs of an old greying dog, who was once a bag of hairless bones, and now wants only love and safety.

Our planet is littered with lives of suffering, so why Lucky - why this dog? Why not? Compassion and suffering have neither boundaries, nor limits. They are present in our neighbourhood, our daily lives, and they are familiar to people and animals hidden from our view. The story of Lucky is not unique, but it is a story we can write the ending to. We can be the miracle. And if we make a difference, even only once, we have changed the face of this planet, and the texture of our hearts, forever. I want to find him a home, where he can bask in the sun until he dies a natural death, so that the chain of kindness which links my heart to yours, and your to Ms Wu's, and hers to Melanie's, and Melanie's to her neighbour.... is entwined around the earth, unbroken.

Please help me find a home for Lucky. His transport/paperwork to the US will be arranged, and we will find a way to get him to you, to his home of love, and his resting place in the sun. When Ms Wu heard even ten of her dogs could be saved, she said,"Suddenly I feel the world is full of wonderful and adorable things and there are so many angels helping me and my dogs out. I've cried my eyes out, with tears of joy and appreciation."

Be an angel, be the second miracle. Contact me about Lucky, or any help you can give for any of these dogs, at tarasbabies@earthlink.net.

The reward will be more than one life saved, it will be the seed of a different future for us all.

make a difference

2007-04-29T22:45:00.000-07:00

Think you can't make a difference to the world?
Think again. We all can.

that's a LIE!!

2007-04-22T21:08:00.000-07:00

Antelope Canyon

photo by Mary

The father of a dear friend of mine was a liar. I don't mean someone who told a fib now and then, his life was built on a foundation of untruth. He courted her mother with a lie - sending photographs of himself in front of a house he claimed to be his, when it was not; in the years of my friend's childhood, there was uncertainty around his work, his salary, whether the mortgage was paid. No-one seemed to be able to size up the substance of his words. One time, after he had separated from his wife, and was living alone, he said he was going to Scotland for the weekend, and on his return regaled tales of the journey. It later transpired he had spent the entire weekend in his apartment, the curtains closed.
I met him once, when I travelled with my friend - actually, my partner, so I suppose he was my father-in-law, if the law ever recognised such relationships - to the land on another continent where he lived. He had divorced my friend's mother by then, had recently re-married, and we travelled across another border to the village of his forbears. The highlight was a visit to a church where his father, purportedly an artist, had painted a magnificent mural - the details of this untruth are a lost to me now - i only know, when we entered the church, the story dissipated into something far less than he had described. There was no mural, simply a statue his father had somehow worked on.

It was at his funeral that the shakiness of his words became most apparent; the pastor, basing his speech on the knowledge of the second wife, described my friend's father's life. She and her mother looked at each other bemused. Although this was undoubtedly what he had told his wife, it was not true. Through his living and past his death, he fabricated who he was.

I am sure there is a term - pathological?- for people who create a world, a life they do not live in, but I had never been knowingly connected with someone who had this habit. It intrigued me that someone would do this, to continuously undermine every relationship or potential by removing the foundation of truth. I would say my friend loved her father, yet always there was this tension of what could be believed, what not, creating a fragility.

We all have lied, probably often. I know I have, some large, some small, sometimes without real intention. We lie to ease tension, to hedge the truth, because its easier. We think if we tell a lie and don't get caught, then somehow no damage was done. We build little nests made with hollow, twisted sticks, and think that we are safe. We never are.

One of the vows of ordination is never to lie; actually, this vow can be taken by lay people as well, but the ordination vow is of greater consequence, because of the commitment to your spiritual path inherent in the decision to take robes.

It is an exposed landscape, stripped of the comforts of simple lies. One stands raw and naked, without the option of shifting a word or two, an idea or two, to make the world softer, more palatable. Having taken that vow (and i am sure I have not always honored it) i could see the itsy, bitsy, not-so-terrible lies that I took for granted. Not really lies, we would probably say, but not entirely the truth, either. Sort of straddling the truth, which means not embracing it fully.

The vow to not lie is not about becoming a goody two shoes, or taking a holier than thou posture. Its about letting fall to the ground the habits we cloak ourselves in, which prevent us from knowing the truth of ourselves. In fact, the source of its potency is not only the lies we tell others, it is the lies we tell ourselves in order to try and stay comfortable in a world which ultimately isn't. Self-honesty is the key and the magnifying glass, it is the method by which we look in our hearts and its reflection, our lives, and squirm. It allows us to decipher our presence in the world, by acknowledging our habits - anger, jealousy, judgement and so on. Yet it's not about then hating or blaming or judging ourselves for these habits, it's just seeing they are there, and knowing we can change them. Exposed by self-honesty, the foundation of an opening heart shores up, because instead of the quicksand of dishonesty, there is the infallibility of truth.

It's not easy to be self-honest, it is probably one of the hardest qualities to sincerely and honestly embrace. People do it of course, especially those who may have lived with addictions and pulled their heads up one final time, to say - no more. That is a painful nakedness, physically, emotionally, but the rawness of the wound, its depth, can create a place for looking within and yearning for the possibility of a better life. Self-honesty is fundamental to this.

But self-honesty can help and heal us all, because we all have habits we hide in, or behind, that may not be of benefit to ourselves or others. Perhaps they do active harm, perhaps not apparently so; yet if there is the seed of untruth or deception, or a habit with a poisonous barb, however subtle, the results will always be flawed.

Stripping away the layers of deception, or not-quite-the-truth or bits of ourselves we would rather not have, strips back the illusion of who we seem to be. We may not project ourselves in the extreme manner of my friend's father, yet still our habits create a persona that we cling to, hide in, dance with over and over again. Take away some of the props, and the refreshing wind of clarity and truth will begin to shape our lives. We will find the truth is much more than we imagined, even with our most impressive lie.

This post was inspired by Leigh, who is courageously dealing with the habit of lies. When I first went to her blog, and saw her photo, it was like looking in a plate glass window, a reflection of the past- not perhaps just of myself, but of women whose lives I have shared, in one guise or another. There was a sense of familiarity, which bridged time and space. I thought of the inherent interconnectedness of us all, that the habits we thinks are so unique - our personalities, our lives - never really are. The patterns, like in a kaleidoscope, may shift and change, but the little coloured beads from which those patterns are derived are the same in us all.

The Buddha teaches that there is no difference between you and I, there is no place I end and you begin. We cannot comprehend this - I cannot. Yet we know, somehow, that we are linked in ways we cannot describe nor explain. The power of thought, of our intention rises like an invisible wave to shape the contours of the future. This potential is what we all share, and its essence is truth. It is our habits that deceive us, which trick us into believing the world and the words which we hide in. By letting the habits of harm and deception slide to the earth like a shredded cloth that cannot protect us, we will begin to know the majesty, grace and brilliant luminous truth of our hearts.

blue

2007-04-19T16:46:00.000-07:00

Blue Mountains, NSW, Australia

photo courtesy Sydney Morning Herald

Until a few weeks ago, I had never heard of the Blue Ridge Mountains; my first visit was through a delightful post of Stephen's. I enjoy his blog, because of its inherent simplicity, depth and variety, that captures a moment, an idea, in photo and with words. History, the environment, simply being alive: he is likely to offer a post that brings thoughts - serious and of laughter - alive in your mind.

So I saw the rolling lines of the Virginia Mountains through his lens - their deep sultry beauty, reminding me of the Blue Mountains I know from my childhood. These mountains - filled with craggy sandstone escarpments and dense with bush - crouch at the side of Sydney, my home town. We would visit there when I was a child; it seemed such an outing then, although now it is a city commute for many. It was here I first felt snow, an experience i longed for as a child; my father told me it was really sleet, yet to me, more familiar with the burning heat of seaside sand, it was snow - white droplets falling magically from the sky. I love those mountains - thick with eucalypts, spreading for miles; magnificent - and terrifying - views, where only a railing protects you from plummeting deep into the valleys. A few years ago I spent three weeks of a writer's retreat in a rambling old house planted not far from delightful walks. I spent quite some time walking, alone, on the edge of penetrating blue depths, and the faultlines of my memory.

The Mountains in Virginia now bear a harrowing shadow; there, as snow fell lightly, just like in my youth, so did the lives of too many. One cannot imagine the mixture of grief and anger arising in many hearts, as I imagine it had in the tragic mind of the perpetrator of this anguished event. Indescribable suffering endured by so many, it is horrific to witness what such delusion can create. This is a day that this country will never forget, nor should it. We must learn and taste the pain of tragedy, deeply, for it is a lesson we need to contemplate. Hatred and anger can only bring suffering of immeasurable proportions to us all; it has no other fruit.

Friday is a National Day of Prayer, to allow each of us to open our hearts so that the goodness contained therein may bathe the wounds that have been inflicted on the families, on the community, and ultimately on us all. It is not a time of retribution nor blame, it is a time of sadness from which hope and grace may bloom. My prayers are with the tortured minds of all who feel driven to commit horrendous crimes, and to those of us who know them. And to the victims, lost from this world so unexpectedly and abruptly. And to the families and friends of those who died, whose future, in one fraction of a second, was shattered. And to all of us who know the seeds of hatred and confusion - which is every single one of us. We live on a planet torn asunder by seemingly endless violence. May the kindness of our thoughts, the stilling of our minds, the turning to embrace those in need and pain, change this world into a place where blood is no longer spilled by anger and judgement, and only tears of joy fall to soften the earth.

the appearance of joy

2007-04-07T19:30:00.000-07:00

The last couple of weeks have been a bit of a roller coaster; no one thing, just a series of moments which somehow feel like my shadow now falls at a different angle than it did before. Not that this is bad, its just acknowledging that change is the feast of life, and who we are one day is never quite the same as the day before.

This evening that occured for this precious land, in an event that brings me great joy; for the first time, a Stupa is now blessing the Valley. A Stupa is a sacred Buddhist monument - the specifications for which were laid out by Buddha himself, and it is a tangible display of the Mind of Enlightenment. They are places of pilgrimage - not only for Buddhists - and there are many miraculous stories regarding the blessings they provide for those that make wishing prayers while circumambulating a Stupa. Their blessings are also spread across the earth by the breeze , and they are a powerful means of securing the land and diminishing suffering. Everything about them is holy, and the potency is increased by a consecration ceremony, invoking the blessings and power of the divine. There is a link to the right if you would like to know more.

This Stupa is of plaster, and three feet high; it used to be in the garden of Jetsunma's home in Sedona, so it is especially precious. It arrived at the Valley last night with one of our monks, Kamil, and Claire, both of whom came to work with the rescue dogs today, while we went to a workshop. When i returned, at about 5.30, the three of us set it up on a table in Jetsunma's yard, facing east, as is the custom. When Jetsunma comes, she will determine its proper home.

It was a simple, yet momentous, moment. I - and others - have wished for a Stupa at Dakini Valley for years, and that prayer has now come to fruition. It is hard to explain, but knowing its sacredness, and what it portends for the land on which it sits, it is as if an exquisite, fragrant bloom has blossomed in our minds. This is especially miraculous right now, as we are in the final stages of raising money to secure this land for perpetuity, which seems an enormous task, and yet one that must inevitably be fulfilled, so there is no hesitation. My prayer is that the Stupa's appearance will ensure the land is secure until time has ceased.

Claire, who works in nursery, had brought a beautiful pink hollyhock as a gift for Jetsunma's yard. I re-potted it and, with some petunias, it became the first offering. I look forward to cleaning the red Sedona dust from the Stupa and finding attractive rocks to garland the table. Although it is a temporary setting, it is a great privilege to be able to make these offerings on behalf of us all.

I sat tonight as dusk drew its cloak, eating my dinner on the stone bench next to the small fountain outside Jetsunma's back door. The Stupa, its whiteness rising out from the greying light, was directly in my line of vision. I feel such peace and joy that it is here, truly like finding a jewel in a tumble of rocks strewn by the rising confusion of life.

It is six years this week since I arrived in the USA and, more importantly, since I began living at Dakini Valley. The time frame is almost meaningless to me - I could say it has gone quickly, and yet days have seemed like time had no measure. So much has happened within and without - always, I pray, for the benefit of the world and all beings. I have known moments of such despair that only my breath connected me with the Truth of this spiritual Path; I have experienced great certainty and joy that all that is possible lies within my own heart. I have tasted terror through which I was not sure I would survive. I have lived alone and with others, anger and laughter. I have weathered the storms of the sky, and internal eruptions. I have tried to serve through happiness and its opposite, knowing that whatever I may feel, each and every step, taken with trust and resolve, is a gift to myself, and all creatures. My intention is not always true - I am fallible, for sure - but the possibility is never, ever lost; it is the guiding light, if I just turn my head, it is always there. The Stupa reminds me of this.

Although I may be physically present here, and you are not, the one things I know without any doubt, from that place which is not of cognition, but of recognition, is that this Valley is for you as much as me. I have been blessed with this opportunity, and am grateful beyond words, but I am just one thread in the fabric which clothes us all. This land is a place within time and space, just as I am, but it also reflects that which is indefinable. I know no-one who has walked this land that has not been moved. Yes, by its magnificence and beauty, the width of the sky, the sound of the stream, the compassionate activity we try our best to accomplish. But, in a way like the Stupa, these are just displays, the refraction of light through the crystal. What we truly respond to is the call of our heart, which is more audible here. This land is precious and potent, because it awakens us to something we may not yet recognise, yet which is more than the sum of anything we could imagine.

A few years ago, at Jetsunma's suggestion and during a solitary winter, I wrote a book about living here and practice. It became a powerful practice of contemplation in itself. I would like to offer a passage as a gift - to the Valley, to the Stupa, to all beings. And to you. In the end our breath - that which allows us to even be - is all we have offer. And if you feel inspired or touched in any way, please consider sharing this gift with me, by making a donation to help secure the land. The amount is not significant, it is the intention of honouring this place of peace, of compassion, of wisdom, dedicated on behalf of all beings, everywhere.

"In the first year I was here Jetsunma asked me to collect river stones to adorn her new deck. I would wheel the barrow down and search for the most interesting, exquisite ones I could find. Some I could pick up with one hand, others were so large and heavy it took all my strength to move them. It was a wonderful practice; each day Gypsy and I would go down to the creek and amble along, attentive to detail. It was summer and warm. I wanted always to find the best one, better than the days before. In a sense it was not difficult, because they all are jewels. I thought of the line in Ngondro reminding us of how precious this human life is; it says to meet with the path of Dharma, yet not practice, is “Like going to a continent full of precious jewels and returning empty handed.”
I have come to recognize Dakini Valley is such a continent, set amidst the sea of our confusion. There is a potency which is reflected in, but not limited to, its magnificence. It allows you to stand raw and exposed to every emotion and habit you carry within you. It will peel back your flesh in which you seek refuge, and open the wounds that have not yet healed. It soothes you and holds you in moments of torment. It bathes you with ointment of pure loving kindness. It offers you everything in your own heart, it is your own heart. It is every heart everywhere in all time, trembling and beating in one union of rhythm. It holds the potential of all you have longed for without ever knowing. It bids you welcome, awaken, its heart never closed."

The jewel that is the Valley

2007-03-23T12:37:00.000-07:00

Please click for a beautiful slide show of Dakini Valley, and Tara's Babies Animal Welfare. It moved me to tears to see this precious land, which is my home, and to be reminded of its potency - our potency - which can be realised in immeasurable ways. I am truly blessed to live here, and thank you all for the ways in which you support me and every compassionate activity, which is the true sustenance for us all.

the union of pure love

2007-03-22T16:24:00.000-07:00

The sun is female, the moon is male.

Kyabje Kunzang Dorje Rinpoche and Jomo Sam'phel

photo : Vision magazine of the Aro lineage, 2001

My big brother is marrying his partner of some years this weekend, in Australia. They have two most beautiful young children, whom I know through photographs. Their family is larger than that, though - my brother has other, older children from earlier marriages, whom I also barely know, and of course there are the families of my brother and his partner, which no doubt extend further than I imagine.

I would not describe us as a close family - not through discord, by any means - but by geography, life choices. We each - and I have 3 siblings, all living in the vicinity of Sydney, where we grew up - have carved out lives for ourselves, and, as can happen, these lives do not intersect with any great regularity. Certainly this is the case for me, as I have spent much of my adult life living in other states or countries.

But, this does not negate deeper bonds, that cross beyond this life. My family was the earth in which I took root, and from which I have grown. Without their presence, their contributions, I may not be where I am today, who I am today. Of course, I am responsible for the choices I have made (wise and foolish), yet I am linked to my siblings by our shared past.

My big brother is seven years older than me, which, for a child, can be a great number of years; though the age differential has shrunk over time. I would not say we were close as children, yet one fond memory is of me very small, and my brother wrapping me up in a blanket early one Sunday morning - as snug as a bug in a rug, he said - to carry me into my parent's room to snuggle. I have no recollection of events prior to or after I was wrapped, but that one snapshot is strong and vivid, encapsulating love, tenderness, caring and belonging. Qualities he displays today; especially since my parents' deaths he has maintained the links amongst us. The family is alive in our hearts.

When I was growing up I dreamed of getting married - the whole romantic, white picket fence routine; i love Meg Ryan moves, if that gives you an idea. The first time I seriously thought of it I was about eight years old, and my best friend, Peter B. and I discussed getting married. The one presenting problem was that he was Catholic and I was not, and we knew you could not marry in a Church if that was the case. Such serious issues for small children to ponder; i think I planned to convert. As we grew up we grew apart and, most sadly, I heard Peter died when still a young man. He was most definitely my first love, with a kind and gentle heart.

My mother kept many of my school books - essays, drawings etc - and I found one I wrote at about the same age, perhaps a year or two later, entitled "My 40th Birthday". It was so humorous to read when indeed I turned 40 - I was married to a space traveller, we had at least 8 children (2 sets of twins), I spent my days tending them and cooking and cleaning (my birthday gift from my husband was a robot to help with these chores!). That dream ran deep in my psyche.

In fact, one reason I chose to be ordained was because this yearning has been so strong in my life. Its not that you can't be a Buddhist and be in a relationship, or that I thought there was a problem with sharing your life happily with someone else. It certainly wasn't about denial or repression. It was a deep understanding that - for me - I needed to let go of the premise I had held for so many years of where I would find happiness, in order to embrace my spiritual path in the way I needed to. It was a purely personal choice, based on knowing myself, my patterns, the habits that I needed to loosen my grip on (or their grip on me!). My partner and I had been through some tough times - had been to counselling, worked very hard - and had reached a place that it seemed my dreams could come true, especially as we began to connect with Buddhism. This made it such a more challenging, yet precious, decision to make; leaving a bad relationship would have made so much more sense to the wider world.

A few years ago I had the honour to be one of three witnesses at my ex-partners joining ceremony with her new partner. Jetsunma, who is a certified marriage celebrant, performed the ceremony, in the living room of a friend's home. It was very simple - a beautiful altar, with flowers, candles, White Tara; they each had written their own vows, which they spoke for all of us to share. Jetsunma gave the most exquisite blessing, speaking of the richness of a loving relationship, how one can support the other to grow on the Path. I wept the entire time, bathing in Jetsunma's joy, my friends' joy; the room, the world was alight. Of course this, ceremony has no legal stance, especially in Arizona, but Jetsunma referred most pointedly to that; for she, with unbounding love and wisdom, would never deny or condemn the relationship of two people, whomever they may be, if it is grounded in love and commitment and honour and trust. For her, it is a union to be blessed, and from which goodness will arise.

It was interesting for me - as bridesmaid, as I teased my ex-partner, who had never embraced the idea of such commitment to me! - to participate in this ceremony. I watched, kneeling close to Jetsunma's side, as they spoke, exchanged rings - both teary-eyed, a little nervous. (I had shopped with them for days to buy just the right outfits!). I felt great happiness for them, but not one iota of remorse at the choice I had made to become ordained. In a way, I was watching my own dream play out, with someone else in the leading role, and I was contented - joyful - to be where I was, who I am. I am happy for that dream or that choice for anyone else, and yet I am certain that having let that dream go, I discovered different opportunities for living my live fully, with laughter and joy.

I chose the photo for this post because I think it is exquisite; it is the lead photo for a teaching by Ngak'chang Rinpoche of the Aro lineage on Vajra Romance. Rinpoche and his wife, Khandro Dechen, are the holders of this pure Nyingma lineage, and offer extraordinary teachings and insights, which have helped me immeasurably. I cannot do justice to Rinpoche's words or the depth of meaning they convey, for they arise from Wisdom mind, but I would like to share this brief extract, without suggesting that it in any way contains all that Rinpoche's teaching is really about:

So falling in love...is spoken of as being a nyam, and a nyam is a spiritual experience....And this is where we see for a moment, or a day, or a month, an aspect of our entirety. So one comes to value the other person a great deal. One automatically engages in the two prongs, or the two forks, of spiritual practice according to Buddhism, which are...wisdom and compassion. Wisdom equates to being open, compassion equates to being kind.

Everybody who falls in love becomes open and kind to their partner, at least for a period of time. And the more open and kind you are, the more openness and kindness you get back; so the more openness and kindness you put out."

We live in an imperfect world, with imperfect lives. We rise to joy and fall into suffering. We try to find answers, or even frame questions. We each make sense as best we can with what we uncover in ourselves, our environment. And on this journey there are people with whom we share our lives - sometimes by choice, sometimes simply so, because they are there. Each of these encounters is an opportunity to look, to learn, to hear, to change. To make the world a true home, embracing all. There is no moment when this potential does not exist; it is the richness of who we are, who we can become. For those of us who choose to share our lives and hearts in a partnership of trust and commitment, to honour that basic goodness as the fertile ground of all possibility - to Tim and Leanne - and to everyone who knows and treasures that deep bond to another, I wish you every happiness, always.

longing

2007-03-18T15:14:00.000-07:00

These posts are read by a varied audience - my Dharma brothers and sisters, some of whom I have never met, friends from different times and places, people I may never meet and my family from this very life. Diverse in age, culture, geography and beliefs, yet somehow linked through this precious valley and my presence here.
As i began today to trim the disorder from the garden, in preparation for Jetsunma, I thought about how foreign it can be to understand the relationship to a Teacher, in the sense of the Tibetan Buddhist path, which I have embraced. There was no framework in my up-bringing to prepare me for the life I chose - if indeed "choose" is the right word to describe the unfolding of events, the sense of knowing that arose from a place beyond articulation. Before asking Jetsunma for her blessing to take robes, I wrote a short essay - for myself, and for her - reflecting on the journey which had led to that request. I wrote "it is required of me" - not by anyone or anything external, but from some internal recognition that spoke as my heart. Just as I know that my breath - one after the next - occurs without thought, and provides me with life, so was, is, the connection of my life with Jetsunma.
I know some people have thought perhaps I was in a cult. In our world, there are such relationships, which cause havoc and destructive behaviours that bear no good fruit. But this is not the case. My commitment to - and deep devotion towards - Jetsunma and all she represents arises through reflection, critical thinking, contemplation, making choices and trying to understand the results. Although it its well-spring is an undeniable, indefinable bond, it is nurtured by the process of hearing her teachings and applying them, as best I can, in my life. There is no great mystery, really, this Path in essence is profound in its simplicity. And, for me, Jetsunma is the presence who can enable me to unravel the layers of confusion, to live this simplicity of compassion and wisdom, purely.

I cannot explain devotion; words somehow fail me. It is as if the heart sees its own reflection in a clear, still pond - sharp, vivid, wondrous. And in that spontaneous, indescribable recognition is the certainty that this bond, this connection is the one thing - beyond all else - that has meaning or value of any consequence. It is neither only of the intellect, nor the heart. It is deeper, wider, fuller, less tangible than either or both of these. Yet both are involved in allowing this relationship to realise its magnificent potential.

This does not mean I never have doubt; I am, after all, a very ordinary being, and doubt is a frailty of being human. It's not a billboard sort of doubt, of thinking this is untrue or invalid or crazy. Its a much more insidious subtle doubt, whereby I make choices that do not honour my commitment and devotion, my vows - not perhaps in an outrageous way, but still it's what I do. For if I had no doubt, if my faith was infallible, there would never be a moment - not one - where my mind was not turned to the clarity and certainty of this spiritual path, and the belief in cause and effect.

So doubt is a sidekick who trails along, and I acknowledge its presence and work to reduce that habit. With the certainty that the more I engage in what my heart tells me is true, the less potent the doubt will be.

In a beautiful teaching she gave over a decade ago, Jetsunma spoke of longing for the Guru. It is a teaching I refer to - especially in difficult times - because it reminds me of that moment when I first knew with certainty that I had discovered something that had never been lost, my relationship with my Teacher. She speaks of the longing we may know, but do not know how to name. Perhaps a spiritual search for happiness, or meaning, which within our cultural frame of reference we could not realise. She says:
"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 homing instinct to find your Teacher. You were born with a longing to find a pure path and there were no words for it when you grew up."

In connecting with Jetsunma - although I was on another continent, and had only seen her on video tapes - it was as if I had stumbled into a stream which flowed through my heart, yet of which I had never been really aware. Not so much a great big ahhah!!, as simply knowing here was someone who spoke to me in a language inscribed on my cells, in my mind, to the very core of my existence. I was fortunate to follow this stream, to immerse myself as best as I can, for it has become a journey of such immensity, beyond imagination.

Before his untimely death, John Kennedy Jr. interviewed His Holiness the Dalai Lama. Although I cannot remember his exact words, Kennedy noted that when HH left the room at the end of the interview, it was as if we were in a darkened room, and the man holding the light had left.

This so eloquently describes the Teacher; the room is our life, the Teacher the illuminator to enable understanding of that life. The light will have different shapes, forms, colours and intensity for each and every one of us. It is a very intimate relationship. And by honoring this intimacy, by treasuring its potential, we can can come to know that the light is really the flame in our very own hearts.

Not every one will choose a Path such as I have. Yet its source is present in all of us - it is the call of compassion, the wish to live our lives fully, with joy. It is wanting to make the world safer, kinder. It is the sponataneous urge to give a gift to a friend, to stop and smell the scent of spring. It is the ocean of basic goodness in each and every heart. However we may respond to its call, may its brilliance shine forth for all.

singing a song

2007-03-16T18:11:00.000-07:00

Jetsunma at Dakini Valley

Guru Yoga Retreat, 200o

photo: Wib Middleton

I am writing this with Humpty Dumpty's head - hard boiled - on my shoulders. It seems we have by-passed spring and moved straight into summer; don't let the morning chill fool you, as it did me. I went to work with the rescue dogs this a.m. - with freshly shaved skull - and for one reason and another, morning turned into early afternon. Sharp blue sky, fading the mountainside colours, irrepressable sunshine. And no hat. Karen had borrowed the truck, filled with the delectable aroma of decaying trash, for a dump run, so I didn't want to walk in the heat down and then back up the hill to get a hat. For a while I wore two pieces of soaked paper towel draped on my head - a fetching accessory - but the wind disallowed that remedy. As is so often the case, it is only now, hours later, that I recognise the full effects of overexposure to the sun. Which may have moved inside my skull.

But it's glorious weather, in truth. The sky stretched vividly across the valley, the birds alive with joy, buds beginning to ornate the trees . I heard the first humming bird this week. It is definitely time for me to turn my energy back to Jetsunma's house and garden, both sadly neglected over winter. And most especially, and joyfully, because we have just heard she is coming to stay here in May!!! This is the most exhilerating news I have heard in a long long time.

When Jetsunma moved back to MD last summer, there was no sense of when those steps back to the southwest might be retraced. It was quite an adjustment for me - for all of us - to work through and live with. Not that anything in this world is certain or fixed , it was a good lesson in that, but of course, as creatures of habit we get used to a certain rhythm in our lives, on which we begin to rely. That was all swept away with a stiff, sharp broom. I sat for quite a while in a vacuum, unsure of any familiar point of reference. Of course, in a way, my surroundings had not altered, yet something fundamental had shifted. It was an opportunity to journey into myself, to re-align. To recognise that absence is potent with presence, if I choose to live it that way. This precious Valley - the place of Dakinis, of which Jetsunma is one - has been my home for 6 years now. I know she always here, in my heart. Or there, in yours. The person, the physical presence, is the treasured gift who teaches us this truth. So in some ways, the absence can be most illuminating, enabling us to begin to consider the continuum that cuts through time and space.

But still, one has to live through it, shaping one's life as best one can. Not knowing what the future will bring, but trying always to live with awareness, mindfulness, compassion and kindness. Because in its simplest form, this is the presence of our teacher, from the inside out.

So now I need to shift gears again. There is a great deal to accomplish in the next eight weeks. When I open my eyes and really look, i see the scruffy shambles of an unkempt home, and that has to change! It can, and will - as I strew the seeds, they will grow; as i water the plants, they will blossom; as I sweep the stairs, the way will be clear; as I wash the windows, I will again see; as I feed the birds, they will sing with contentment; as I hang the prayer flags, the blessings will flow. As I open my heart, with joy, my teacher will be here. This is the song I sing for us all.

Nora

2007-03-10T17:53:00.000-08:00

Well, I know some cat lovers read this, so here is a cat who knows her tune!

http://www.ifilm.com/video/2822657

generosity

2007-03-09T13:05:00.000-08:00

When I was getting ready to move to the US, and quite recently ordained, I did what so many of us do again and again in our lives - i sorted through my things. Memories mostly, in the sense that what inhabits most things is some recollection of time or place or people, which can be as weighty as the object itself.

One of my favorites was a beautiful scarf I had bought in Nepal in my very early twenties - on my first big adventure overseas, alone. That journey was monumental on many levels, I am probably still sifitng through them now. It certainly is where I circumambulated a Stupa for the first time in this life.

The scarf was of yak's wool - softer than a kitten's underbelly - and striped in narrow, crooked lines of subdued rainbow hues. I had mulled over its purchase in the crowded markets of Katmandhu - not wanting to spend my precious money, which needed to stretch until I didn't know when. I spent several days wandering hither and forth, and always drawn back to that tiny stall embellished with colour, garlanded with scarves; I would look and feel its almost gentleness on my skin. Really, I knew from the start i would buy it, yet I had to do this dance with myself; one I am so familiar (and often bored!) with, which perhaps has diminished over the years.

It stayed with me, even as I moved and travelled here and there, it remained a beloved possession - so warm and soft and beautiful. And the remaining souvenir of an overland trek which took me from Nepal, through the Khyber Pass and Afganhistan (where i had the great blessing to witness the majesty of the Bamiyan Buddhas, now erased) - through a region now torn and bloodied with war.

However, I knew the time had come for me to let it go. I could not imagine wearing it with my robes, and it seemed pointless to keep it just for the sake of not giving it away.

In my hometown there was a woman who had once told me she loved it. We were neither friends nor colleagues, but our paths crossed with regularity through our work. We met at meetings, events etc., and had done so for some years. She was not a woman I always found easy to be with. Perhaps we shared some similarities in being outpsoken and forthright in our viewpoints, which did not always agree. It was not that I outright disliked her, it was just often I found myself tightening, prickling. This, of course, was all from my side - she was most probably entirely oblivious to it. She was always, genuinely, friendly.

In the the interesting twists of life unfolding, she took over my job when I resigned. I visited once or twice - talking about the workplace, what was happening etc. One day she was wearing a scarf; i think she had a cold. I went home and pulled out my rainbow prize and sat with it. It was hard enough to give it away, harder still to think of giving it to someone who made me prickle. I clung for a day or two - the same dance, in reverse, as when I had bought it.

Then I took it in and gave it to her. Her face opened, smiling. She was touched and happy to receive this unexpected gift. Her delight was deep and infectious. "Are you sure?", she said (for after all, we were not close). "Of course", I replied - for in truth there was no more perfect recipient than her.

We both received a gift that day - and mine was much more valuable and lasting than hers. In giving something so dear to me to someone who was not, I began to understand the richness of generosity. It is not easy to let go of things we treasure, even if they have no worth, or in the case they do. We cling, we dance, we fear the enormity of loss. I still do. But in that moment of letting go, to benefit others, we open up that corner of our hearts wherein lies abundance and joy. Her smile alone repaid me for any apparent loss; I walked away from my old office enriched by the exchange, and grateful for the chance to see that being generous is truly its own precious reward .

mother's day

2007-03-04T09:11:00.000-08:00

local widlflowers, photo by Mary

As I mentioned in my last post, yesterday was a holy day, where thoughts and actions become more potent, like the way your voice is amplified when you speak through a cardboard tube, or multiple echoes reflect back again and again what you have said. For this reason, as a practitioner, one tries to be even more mindful during the day.
Well, being an ordinary mortal with a mind that can be a stew pot of emotions, I found myself reacting to circumstances yesterday that were not on the positive side of the scale. I became frustrated, compounded further by having a mental list of things (all "good") I wanted to accomplish on this special day.
In the midst of this, I was standing in my room, all churned up, when I glanced out the window. There, by the barn, was one of our visiting cows - a rich dark brown beauty with impressive horns - licking the face of her small calf, standing knee high at her side. Everything stopped as I watched them. It was a simple and touching scene, yet I intimately experienced her love for her child, and my inner whirlwind ceased instantly. I remembered the real purpose of a sacred day is to understand and contemplate the presence of loving kindness and compassion in our lives. Present in every moment.
In that potent way of synchronicity, I listened by phone this morning to Mugsang Rinpoche teach in Maryland. Rinpoche is a revered Teacher in our lineage, a heart son of our Throneholder, HH Penor Rinpoche. During his teaching, Rinpoche reminded us of the compassion that our parents, our mothers, have offered us from before our very birth, through the nurturing of our childhood - feeding us, clothing us, tending our wounds. Without that kindness and concern for us, we would not even be alive today.
In this hustle bustle world we sometimes forget that, forget the people who have provided us with support and guidance and love - those people who nourished us with the nectar of goodness from their own hearts, sometimes doing without so that we would benefit. Not that we probably didn't all experience anger, frustration, tension - especially with our mothers!! - but, at the core there was the gift of life, of potential, of doing the best for us, in the way that they could.
Yesterday, in one brief instant, the big brown ignorant cow showed me this; displayed for me a tenderness that is mine and yours, that was offered us by our parents. The tenderness of a good heart, of loving-kindness, of wanting to nurture and protect. I hope through my life to honour my parents and this gift, that it may become more than even they could ever have imagined. There is no way to repay others for what they have given us, except through the goodness of our own hearts and lives. May this be the gift we give each other, in every moment, every day.

puddytat

2007-03-02T20:29:00.000-08:00

There are some that say the world is divided into dog people and cat people; if that is the case, i am not sure where my feet are placed. As a child I was undoubtedly a dog person, living with cats. A dog was a member of our family for a period of time - i am unsure how long. S/he wandered into our lives at some time when I was very small- and, interestingly, was named Gyp by my parents - and then some time later, wandered on again. I have no recollection of the animal itself - gender, breed - but I still remember the faint echo of sadness when I realised s/he was gone forever. I loved her dearly - my mother told me that when she could not find me, she would look in the dog house, and we would be curled up together, asleep.

The three cats - Pinky, Spotty and my brother's ginger, Nicky - were all I had in the way of furry animals, and not so satisfying at that. The 2 white ones (pink nose, black spots) were not overtly friendly - not cuddly lap cats at all. I was always overjoyed when they condescended to sleep on my bed, and would curl my small body around their lumps, and happily abandon the blankets for their comfort; a habit i continue today, which is more challenging with one ( or more) 40lb dogs.

When I turned 12 I was allowed to get a dog of my own - a gorgeous golden retriever called Lisadyce; I remember so vividly her presence in my life: I adored her (the only remaining cat - Spotty - did NOT feel the same way). She expanded my life with her wagging tail, and swims in the pool, and after school walks. My father and I would go to dog shows and talk about showing her - she created quite a bond between us, of jaunts and outings. I was a very shy and awkward child, and Lisa was someone to be myself with, and relax into true happiness. When I left for University, she traipsed with me from shared house to shared house, like a well-loved security blanket; only when I went overseas did she stay with friends. On returning to Australia for the second time after a long stint away, in my mid-twenties, I was heartbroken. My now silvered and arthritic girl had developed dementia, and did not recognise me. The pain was sharp and penetrating; I wanted so badly to have my dear friend to stroke and love as I always had, but she had left. I realised she was happier staying with my friends and their menagerie, where she was loved and cared for with devotion, to the extent they carried her outside to the bathroom when her legs gave way. In that moment a precious piece of my childhood was lost to the past, and I wept deeply. She lived some years longer, and was buried on a farm where my sister lived, on the outskirts of Sydney. I was not there; my friends planted a tree, I hope it has grown strong and tall.

Somewhere in my adult life, cats began to infiltrate my heart. I had never disliked them, but they had been second choice. There is a robustness about dogs - the walks, the licks, the wags - that is so solid and energetic, which nourishes me. The interaction is present, vivid, dynamic, sure. Cats are more subtle in what they offer, no less rewarding, but not so assured. I will say, however, that there is perhaps nothing as comforting or soothing as a purring cat on your lap or the bed. The sound, the vibration - it ripples through the pores of the skin and settles the mind to a more tranquil place. Unfortunately for me, most of the cats I have owned have not been affectionate lap cats, much too independent for that. So, on the rare occasions it happened I would stay glued to the chair, not wanting to move for anything, just to allow that experience to stretch for as long as possible.

When the Katrina rescue animals were being transported here, I insisted we maximise the number of cats. The poor woman doing the checklist had to deal with my repetitious - WE HAVE ROOM FOR 6 - again and again. She came through, and we indeed had six in our small cat rescue room, and I was the cat lady. When we were down to the very last one - an extremely affectionate calico - after the rest had been fostered or adopted, i was worried she would be lonely, so dragged my sleeping bag into the cat room, and surrounded by dangling toys and baskets, slept there. That was exquisite; here was a cat who had been loved in a home, then thrown into the chaos of the post-hurricane trauma, and who had not slept on a bed, with a person for months. She purred and cuddled and trampled her little paws all night, in and out of the covers, she was so happy to be loved and held in that constant way again. I cried when she was adopted, but rejoiced later to hear she had eventually been reunited with her original family. I can only imagine what that meant for her and her owners.

Well, on Sunday my feline yearnings will again be fulfilled. Zeus, pictured above, is coming to live with us. I have been busily planning and building and nailing for a couple of weeks, in preparation; it has been extraordinary fun. I have created a small fully enclosed outdoor yard (I have to protect the darling birds I feed), and filled it with cat things to climb in or on. Of course, I needed a cat door to get into the room, and so pulled off a small square board from the side of the log cabin. Amazingly, it was perfect; instead of a cavity, as I expected, there was an old hand-made brick as a base, and bits of tin as wall, and an opening the perfect size for a cat. I sawed out a hole on the inside planks, and attached some shelves to the wall, so now he can get in and out with ease. Future plan is to enclose the back porch with screen, and create a covered walkway from the yard to that, so he has 3 places to enjoy. Right now it is the room (maybe 18' x 18') and the yard. And 3 dogs.

I have explained to the three of them why I am doing this, and they have been interested to investigate and help. However, I don't think the word CAT is truly in their vocabulary, at least not in a permissible way. According to Milo's report card from the Shelter where I got him, he had, as a puppy, lived with 2 cats - with whom he played roughly (he was as a 6 month old puppy relinquished to the pound because of his energy). So I think he will come through. Gypsy will be horrified and stare at me with those round brown eyes, but she is ageing and arthritic and will deal with it. Nyima is the wild card - loves to chase, including the barn cats - now gone - whenever she gets a chance. Actually, all 3 of them hunt squirrels, and a cat is not so different. But there will be no place for chasing, and besides, the lady who rescued Zeus some weeks ago recommended he get placed here, because he has that masculine authority (look at those eyes!) to deal with dogs. He is currently living with 3, and holding his own - sometimes friendly, sometimes, beware! She assures me he is also a lap cat.

It will be a challenge to keep him inside, and teach the dogs they don't have free access all the time. I have hung a door between the small kitchen and the main room, which has already surprised them, but we will all adjust.

So, only 2 more sleeps and my family will expand, and I am sure some chaos ensue. But i am looking forward to it very much.

In the meantime, tomorrow is a wonderful day - a sacred day for Buddhists - where we try and devote as much time as possible to prayer, and deeply recognising the essence of kindness and compassion, where the potency of whatever you do or think is magnified. So I wish every one a day - a lifetime - of joy and accomplishment and prosperity, that the goodness in our hearts may ripen and flourish. And I also wish you lots of fun, because getting ready for Zeus has reminded me that simply having fun can soften some abrasive edges, and make the sun glow golden inside your very heart.

the fourth immeasurable

2007-02-21T17:49:00.000-08:00

The creek is still too high to cross with ease, so we take our daily walks on this side; wading through a thick bed of decaying sycamore leaves, clambering over the grey of fallen trees, by-passing chaotic bundles of sticks and limbs, residues of past flood. Yesterday Gypsy sniffed at the ground and her tail went erect, she began her "I am Queen of this Territory" bark; upon investigation, I found in the mud the clear print of a cat - a large one: the paw was as big as my fist. Evidently the mountain lion is still our neighbour.

Coming back, Nyima and Milo began to play chase, tearing along the wire- fence line, ducking and weaving underneath, one then the next, from side to side. Circling around trees, growling and teasing. I laughed; I love to watch them play - there is a lightness, an effervescence, a display of joy and play that is infectious. This is one of the great gifts they bring to my life.
I can tend to be serious, to weigh each moment for its impact or purpose, to contemplate rather than just be, and in so doing, hindering the presence of spontaneity. Not always, of course - i can laugh and tell jokes and float with the swell of simple joy. But I am a Capricorn, and it is true to say that my habits fall on the serious side. I can be worried and rigid and disciplined to the point where the world is so solid i will trip on it.
This has its ups and downs as a practitioner. When i first met this Path with my heart, I was driven by a deep passion to engage. The beginning of our foundational practice, Ngondro, involves 100,000 full length prostrations, through which your mind can soften (and body become healthy!). It is an arduous, yet so precious experience, and i was determined to do it. Most every day I came home from my part-time job and went to my practice room, with small altar, and, despite the heat of a central Australian summer, would do prostration after prostration into the hundreds, until the sweat poured. I truly had a single-pointed focus to get through, to move on: because I knew this was a foundation I needed in order to even begin the journey i was embarking on. Diligence and discipline were my stave; nothing was going to interfere. And for this I am grateful.
Yet, a few years ago, while living out here, I began to understand that too much can become a cumbersome weight, preventing movement. Discipline can become fixed rigidity, and that is something this path is not. It is fluid, flexible - which is not the same as sloppy or lame. But each moment contains the potential for anything, everything: is bursting with energy and awareness. Is alive. You can't box it in or nail it down, you have to surrender and allow it to awaken.
I was reminded of this by Tia - whom I have never met, and yet our lives have intersected, creating the space for the exchange of friendship. She wrote of the need for more whimsy in her life, and described herself as "She who yearns to dance", with joy and light. This prompted me to turn to one of my favorite books "Magic Dance, The Display of the Self-nature of the five Wisdom Dakinis" by the loved and revered teacher, Thinley Norbu Rinpoche. Rinpoche's writing is exquisite, arising from Wisdom Mind; it is poetry beyond words, as he describes the indescribable, in ways that tease your mind. Evocative and elusive, like rainbow-hued drops of a waterfall, I have read and re-read this book line by line, and still its true meaning evades me, although I know it is there on every page, in every syllable. Whether the book is open, or closed.
There is a chapter titled "Playmind" in which Rinpoche explains to us, "So whatever our practice is, we need playmind, which is always unexpecting and vast. Playmind has no fear because it has no object. Because it is completely natural and open, it always gives bliss and blessing." He also says, "Many teachers and texts say that we must be serious and diligent in our practice. But serious diligence does not mean only strict and narrow discipline. If we separate diligence from open space, it is the course of ignorance. Real diligence is always the continuous energy of open playmind."
Its a fine line to walk, for me - to learn diligence is not the same as rigidity, yet to honour the sacredness of the commitments I have made. To allow the breath of joy to infuse my prayers, my days, my intention, and not stay fixed on "am i doing it well enough, or right, or because i have to" or whatever else drags me away from the essence that is the true nourishment.
We are taught of the four immeasurable qualities that are always within our hearts. Loving-kindness, compassion, equanimity. And joy. Qualities that reach beyond the ends of space, and yet are contained within the very cells of our bodies. We have all tasted them in our lives, they are familiar to us in an intimate way. Yet sometimes, for me, it is easier to focus on the first three: to try and be kinder, to evoke compassion for others, to work at embracing that all beings are equal. And to neglect joy, the deep and quiet stream that the first three arise from, and also create.
Of course there is no first and last - they are, after all, immeasurable and vast: different colours reflecting from the very same source. Yet for me, with my sackful of habits I drag through each day, it seems as though joy is the fabric on which the others are woven. It is the blush of sunrise from which the mountains are etched. It is always there, present, but I get stiff and worried, and so easily forget. To taste it, breathe it, be it. Let it erupt and spill out,
The photo for the post was sent to me recently by my dear friend Mary; when I saw it I laughed! Who knows what my scrunched up face is saying to her as she takes this photo of me and her patient husband, Tom. But there I stand for eternity, clothes crooked, arm on hips, like the country-girl i guess i now am. And in the background the spacious majesty of the mountains and sky that cradle this, my blessed home. It is always like this, in a way - we appear in different guises, different emotions, different weathers, some of which we label good, others bad. But there we are, in that moment. Yet if we look around, and within, we can recognise something more - the beauty and vastness and simplicity from which we arise. It is the background, and it is our hearts - inseparable. And if we allow ourselves to look deeply, we will know that well-spring of joy, from which we can always drink.

a sweet note

2007-02-16T13:02:00.000-08:00

hungry juncos in the snow (photo by Mary)

As many of you know, I have been fortunate enough to live at Dakini Valley for 6 years. It was an unexpected outcome of my journey to the States; Jetsunma had suggested her small Sangha in Alice Springs move to Sedona in AZ, to receive teachings and learn. I was the first of those able to leave, and arrived wide-eyed, yet exhausted, on a Thursday in April. That Saturday I travelled to Dakini Valley with another nun, for what I thought would be a would be a weekend visit; I never left.

That first summer was an eruption of activity. Everything - everyone - was new to me, so sometimes it was raw and challenging. Renovations we being made to Jetsunma's retreat home by a group of monks, and I was thrown into a world far removed from where I had come. There was a sense of community and commitment, and sometimes tension, as the days could be long and hot, and the living situation quite rustic. But just as the electric storms and rain sliced across the sky to clear the heavy air, we ultimately worked together, as a team.

By the end of July numbers had dwindled; the task complete, people peeled away back to jobs and other actvities. Finally only one monk and I remained. I had nowhere in particular to go to, and was concerned about who would care for Jetsunma's garden when everyone had left. To my utter suprise, Jetsunma suggested I remain living here, on my own.

This had never even occured to me as a possibility, it was like a door to an unknown world had been flung open. I grew up in the suburbs of Australia's largest city, i have always lived in regular houses on regular streets of regular cities and towns, where there are people and shops and activity and conversations and electricity and so on. At that time Dakini Valley had no phone, let alone internet access. It is 5 miles on a rugged dirt road from the nearest habitation of weekenders and a sprinkling of permanent residents; 45 minutes on dirt to a town of 800 with one general store; 1.5 hours mostly on dirt to a town with traffic lights. And surrounded by 3 million acres of magnificent untamed wilderness.

Supported by Jetsunma's assurance I would be safe, and certain she would never place any being in harm's way, I stayed, with only my precious canine friend Gyspy as daily company. The early months were hard, almost beyond description, as I met and embraced the fears and uncertainties dormant in my mind, each and every day and night. The hugeness of the landscape and sense of isolation both swallowed me up and expanded my breath. I was not lonely, but aware of alone-ness; until i finally began to recognise that in the depths of my heart i was never alone. That took a very very long time to begin to comprehend, and i am still learning.

One of the tasks Jetsunma asked me to do, written in her very own hand, was feed the wild birds of the Valley. Arizona has been in a severe drought for over a decade, the land can be barren and dry. Besides, Jetsunma has a heart so big, there is space for everyone. She asked me to keep the bird feeders full, always. While this may sound simple, it has been a joyful, arduous and challenging practice to try and fulfill. Over the years i have wept, despaired, rejoiced, resisted as I have tried to come to terms with that one simple sentence.

There have at times been over a hundred feeders hanging from the trees; there are countless birds who have come to live here. Generations have been born. Every day from first light till shadows lengthen, the air is softened by chirping and chatter and song, and the raucous calls of the ravens. Our birder monk, Konchog, who was here that first summer, recorded 25 species, all fairly ordinary. At times in summer I have used hundred of pounds of feed, thousands of dollars in value. Who knows how many 50lb bags I have lugged, buckets I have carried. I became a familiar sight in Payson Walmart, several shopping carts in tow, laden with seed.

Feeding the birds has been hard, not because i don't love them, they have truly become my babies. But because of the constant enormity of it, physically, financially. I have been stretched beyong my limit, not knowing how I can raise the funds, how to accomplish abundance. Especially at this time of year, when they are so hungry and devour the food so quickly. Or when the elk move in, and everything vanishes overnight. It has seemed - still seems - an impossible task, and yet it is mine to embrace.

I have lived with this practice for years know, swilled it around in my mind, savoured the different aromas. I have seen the contraction and tension, the tightening up of my heart, and also known the expansion and relaxation, the simple joy of watching them feed. Layer upon layer of reaction and understanding have been there for me to peel back, to try and recognise that place where empty and full are one and the same. This is a journey of generosity, of letting go, of breaking through my limitations, of becoming, from inside out, the source of abundance that is our true nature. All this with a bucket of feed.

Like anything, feeding the birds is about just that - feeding the hungry, caring for those in need. But also like everything else, it contains the potential to be a method of change. Of changing my mind, my heart, my view of the world. When I look out the window at the stunted apple tree, its only fruit a bounty of thistle-filled feeders laden with finches, I am deeply joyful. When, a day later the feeders are emptied, and the small birds fly about urgently, looking for food, I am saddened. And, almost immediately, worried that I don't have enough, and how will I get more. Again and again this scenario plays out. But I urge myself to feed them, and in so doing also myself, because the source of true nourishment is the willingness to change and the confidence to let go of old habits.

This month is National Wild Bird Feeding month, and so I have favour to ask. Feed some birds, it won't cost much, and watching them feed will bring great pleasure. And as you do, make a prayer or a wish that not only these birds, but every bird, and not only every bird, but every being shall never again know hunger. That instead of poverty there will be abundance, where bowls are empty they will be filled. I promise you from the depths of my heart that this will sow seeds of great joy, for you, for all of us, which eventually will bear the sweet fruit of fulfillment.

it's raining (in L.A.)

2007-02-12T08:38:00.000-08:00

Beginning about 24-hours ago, on yesterday's morning walk, we have been moistened with rain. Sometimes mere sprinkles, followed by deluges that make the tin roofs rattle. One such deluge kept me welcome company in the hours of the night, as I did my shift on our monthly prayer vigil. The dogs wondered what the new adventure was, that i left home at 12.40 am and did not return till after 5, pouring myself into bed. Of course, by 8 am it didn't matter any more, to them, it was TIME!! So here I sit a little discombobulated by lack of - and broken - sleep. I return for the next 4 hours in a little over an hour, and then all three of us living here will join together in a Tsok offering, a joyful celebration of the chance to share in prayer for the benefit of the world. I am honoured at the opportunity - how many people never even know to pray - although I undoubtedly complain, and my eyes get droopy in those wee dark hours, when mantra and visualisation can swirl in my brain. Of course, we are lucky here, because our lives are flexible, and we support each other in working with the rescue dogs today : we are all in the same boat.
The earth was softened chocolate on today's walk, the air scented with a tangy, citrus promise. The creek has risen several inches, the water no longer clear. Gypsy picked her way tentatively across the sometimes submerged rocks. Nyima and Milo? Well, guess! I had the wellingtons on and, like Gypsy, chose my path carefully. We are two old ladies, who like routine and sleep.
We expected rain, because it had been raining in LA. We are just a scissor snip across the land from that city of lost dreams, and its weather becomes ours within a space of of about a day.
It doesn't take that long for other LA patterns to reach us. Gossip travels much faster than clouds; my computer screen has been inundated with news of Anna-Nicole Smith, since probably the very moment her death became public. Photo after photo, story after story, as the world dissects and feasts on the tragedy of her life, and now the repercussions of her death.
I know very few actual details of her life - saw a smattering of her story once on CNN - knew, of course (via computer), of the birth of her baby, the death of her son. Her presence has been unavoidable, and continues to be so, as fights erupt over her home, her child, no doubt her wealth. People step forward to speak, to argue, to pontificate, to challenge, to define the life of this woman who is considered public property.
In my radical feminist youth, I was angry at the dichotomy of the world view about women - so often to be reviled or revered; damned whores or god's police, in the words of an Australian feminist author. Somehow Ann-Nicole's death reminds me of that, she having reached the pinnacle - Playmate of the whatever - of that which some may consider to be on the side of the fallen woman. I don't feel angry now, but saddened, both for the tragedy and suffering she seems to have endured, and for the society I live in which equally condones and critiques the quest for happiness our society lays out, which she was trying to follow.
We live in degenerate times; this is what the Buddha spoke of. I don't mean degenerate in a holier- than- thou way, of sinner and saint, of evil-doers dancing with satan. We live in a time of great confusion, where we reward desire : for beauty, fame, wealth, to have our pictures on the cover of magazines, and these become the perceived mileposts on the journey for happiness and fulfillment . We measure success by these things, and are taught to yearn for them, so much so that, I read recently, it is not unheard of for people to die because of lipo-suction surgery. To die for beauty, like the anorexic models.
And we feast on the highs and lows of people who make it : their weight loss and gain, their addictions and flare-ups, their betrothals and divorces, the grainy pictures barely discernible, and yet of such great value. Angelina is adored because she adopts a baby; Madonna is criticised for doing the same. In a way, the actions don't really matter, it is the value we place on them that counts, which can rise and fall like the stock market. As long as there is something to print and hang at the checkout.
Some years ago Jetsunma referred to our culture's obsession with the Hollywood sagas; she suggested instead that we study the lives of saints and enlightened beings, who were dedicated not to feeding desire, but to ending the suffering it causes. People who valued the resilient qualities of kindness and equanimity and generosity and humility. People who we know of now, not because they searched for fame, but because they lived humble lives committed to goodness. How much deeper and longer will the enduring qualities they brought into the world be present, than the fleeting image of who has made it on the covers today.
I feel sorrow for Anna-Nicole Smith, because she is not so different than me; i too, have placed beauty and fame, the yearning for a child, high on my list of priorities. It is just that my karma provided me with a chance to make different choices, know different outcomes. All she was trying to do was find happiness in the way she thought best, much like you and me. Instead, her life seems to have been sprinkled with great suffering. And now she has met her death.
That is the great leveller of which she reminds us: whatever actions we choose or pursue, we will all die, leaving behind us those things we placed so much value upon. Her mansion, her child her litigations - hollow victories, or losses - now. All that she has taken with her is the habit of confusion, of not being able to discern what will truly bring happiness. That is all any of us carry past our last breath.
She is in my prayers, as is her baby born into turmoil, the men now jostling to claim what she has left behind, her family - everyone affected by this saga, which accounts for probably the entire media- aware population in this nation, if not the world. I wish peace for her, clarity - that in her future she may have the chance for different choices and outcomes, which bring true happiness, not its tawdry imitation.
What if, instead of tearing her life and death apart to feast on, we all - every single one of us - said a prayer for her, for everyone trapped in the cycle of desire and despair. What a blessing - not just for her, but also for us, for the world. A moment in which our hearts collectively soften and open, not to judge her life or her choices or those now rushing forward in rivalry, but to weep for the tragedy we all somehow share in, and to pray for a world where suffering has ceased. In that moment of quiet and contemplation, the axis of the world would shift. May this be Anna-Nicole's final - and most precious - gift to each of us.

renunciation

2007-02-09T20:27:00.000-08:00

summer time bird feeding

Tonight, while de-cluttering the kitchen, moving this over there and removing that altogether, I thought about renunciation; not an easy idea for us in the west to be with. Implications of loss, reduction, contraction. Shaving back with a blunt razor, a process likely to create painful wounds that we fear may never heal.
The decision for me to take robes, become a nun, was neither painless nor simple. Although the idea rose quickly in my mind after my life intersected with my teacher, just as it had floated in my mind in my youth, it was not a straightforward choice. My life appeared happy: I was in a long-term relationship that had weathered some difficult times, yet was in a place of unity and joy. I owned a house I had bought spontaneously because it felt like home: open, spacious, safe, and in which we both lived. I had 3 cats and a dog who had been with me for many years, and were my children. My ambition to be a writer seemed almost to be within reach, with some awards and publications. I was in the place I thought I had wanted to be for a very long time.
But the ground began to creak, a subtle tremor of uncertainty, of another possibility rippled across my heart. Nothing huge like a billboard announcing a change, just a quivering that something most fundamental had shifted. It was both welcome and not; there was a sense of knowing I was moving to where I had always yearned to be, though I did not know where that was, and yet there was a deep abiding reluctance to let go of that which I cherished. There was panic and tears, waves of anguish, moments of joy. Certainty that I would stay in my life as it was, jarred by the realization that that was no longer even a possibility. It was a long painful minuet, of coming together and separation and coming together again. We talked, I prayed, I searched for an answer. I clung tearfully to everything I had known, trying to stay afloat, while at the very same time watching my life as it had been recede like the tide. It was a long 18 months of coming to terms with that which, from the very beginning, was ultimately inevitable. In a sense, although I made the choice, I knew I had no option.
During this time, as the decision grew nearer, I contemplated renunciation. I knew that in taking the vows there was a list of things I would renounce – activities, my hair, my clothes. My earrings! But somehow this was not really what my heart was telling me about the essence of renunciation. As I moved into the place of letting go of what had been important, there was never a sense of reduction, but one of expansion. As if shedding an old ragged coat and discovering a jeweled mantle, long hidden beneath. I knew I was stepping into the vast unknown of unlimited potential: not giving anything up, but rather embracing so much more.
In a sense we are continually letting go: acquisition, then loss, it is a habit of our lives. Buddhist or not, we live through the coming together and separation, the picking up and laying down, the moving towards and then away – even until the moment when we will renounce the very act of inhalation. This is the form and texture of our roller-coaster lives. Whether we like it or not, it is our daily experience.
Becoming a nun was the method for me to make sense of the world and how to move through it; it was a catalyst to propel me to a place where I can know from the inside out the true nature of what is. But it is not the only way forward; renunciation has many hues and tones. It is a view of the world, of digging deeper in yourself and, yes, perhaps of shaving back to a sometimes aching wound. Yet knowing with certainty it will heal. It is a life-long process of being willing to look, review, change. To promise in one’s heart to make a difference for the better, and then having the courage to take those steps. It is a commitment to being whom you truly are – kind, generous, wise, open-minded. It is neither static nor contrived: it is movement, growth, unfolding.
There is a line in one of our prayers that resonates with me: The Bodhicitta is without expectation or disappointment. The Bodhicitta, that great and wise compassion always present in every heart. In a way, renunciation is simply the means to realize this, to understand that there is nothing to yearn for or to let go of. Renunciation is about discovering the wealth in our hearts and our lives, and rejoicing. There is nothing small or tight or diminished by renunciation. It is the tilt of your head towards the sunshine, the prickling of your skin by the breeze, it is the sound of the ocean in a shell. Renunciation is abandoning everything that will cause suffering, and embracing instead the very cause of joy. It is not just about being a nun; it is about being true to your heart, for the sake of the world and all creatures.

Live Action!

2007-02-05T09:51:00.000-08:00

A brief interlude from words today ( although posts are piling up in my mind: I must have pushed the 'write' button!)
Here are 2 videos that were passed on to me; i am sure many of you have seen one or both, but I have watched each several times.
Seemingly different in mode, and yet....? actually the message is identical. And the contrast of lifestyles betwen the first and the second only sharpens the message. Seen side-by-side, their impact is somehow even greater.
Most powerfully touching for me are the words spoken by the Mongolian man at the very end of the first video. He epitomises what Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche, a revered teacher and holder of the Shambhala Buddhist lineage, skillfully reminds us in the second video.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qd3HovTEFo0
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FDSAAlrqAHM
May you - and everyone - find happiness!

reconciliation

2007-02-04T13:12:00.000-08:00

I am not very good at history, at least remembering the details. It was always a favourite subject at school; the sense of exploring the past, uncovering what had been, how people thought, what they wore and ate. Like probably many other children, I dreamed of time machines (I don't know if the Tardus means much to anyone who grew up in the US: did Dr Who make it here?).
So I am ignorant of much of Australia's history, with any detailed accuracy. Yet some years ago I took a journey into a corner of my own family's past, a journey of remembering lives that lead to mine, and a journey of reconciliation.
Like the USA, Australia, as a white person's land, is relatively new, although it had been inhabited for thousands of years by its indigenous people. Members of my family were early explorers and settlers, some of whom had direct first contact with Aboriginal people. I read stories, journals of my not-so-distant forbears, including passages written by my mother's mother, herself a writer. My grandmother, who had held my hand as we walked in the park, collecting pine cones in the wintery morning of our nation's capital city. And my grandfather, who had delighted me by wiggling his ears, and whose coat always seemed to fit us both in.
It was a complex form of time travel, remembering things that somehow seemed so intimate, as these people and I are connected so closely and directly. How do i draw the line between them and me, when i can name them each and every one, and their relationship with me?
I uncovered stories both good and horrific; of an abandoned baby raised by my family, who grew up i am sure within a confusion of culture. Of ideas which to me seem so horrendously prejudiced, and yet which reflect the social milieu of the time. Of Aboriginal people shot and killed through fear. Of words which somehow describe the Aboriginal people as less than human. A coming together of worlds so different that it is in a way not suprising that so much suffering ensued. On every side.
This journey took me inside the mirror, not only of my family, but of my society, my country. It was a peeling back of the skin to try and understand and embrace the place in which I grew up. For many people in Australia, the recent decades have been a journey of reconciliation, for our history, although so short, is littered with bodies and cruelty and children torn from their families, even during my lifetime. Perhaps, sometimes, the motivation was to be of benefit, yet it caused so much pain and hardship and suffering for a whole country of people, invaded.
My salve was writing, exposing this journey on paper, in much the same way as I discovered it. Trying to make sense of the senseless; to reconcile the deep love I felt for my grandparents with the way they had viewed the world. To open my heart and try not to judge. To weep for the dead, and those that had killed them. To not perpetuate the divide, as best as I can, by again sowing the seeds of hatred and blame. To find forgiveness for that which seems unforgiveable.
And to discover the compassion in my own heart. For it must be there, of that I am sure.
Although I did not know it as a researched, read and wrote, those pages paved the beginning of my connection to this Path. As i struggled to come to terms with the enormity and intimacy of my family's and my country's actions, i was beginning to truly learn to be with kindness. To shift my angle of view, to try and let judgement fall, to know that they acted, as I do, from bewildering ignorance of the effects of our choices and actions. That this past is my own, and I cannot deny it, but i have the potential to create a new future.
During the process of writing, I took refuge with my teacher and began Ngondro, a foundational practice. I then won a fellowship to work on the book, and the writing and my path wove together, like my heartbeat and breath. Each day for three weeks i did practice and wrote. And contemplated. It was a watershed juncture in my life, which step after step has lead me to here, although of course at that time such a journey was beyond my thoughts.
I was reminded of this when I received an email from Australia about an event, not from our distant past, but from now. An Aboriginal man, Mulrunji, was in 2004 beaten so severely while in police custody that, according to the coroner, his liver was cleaved. He died on the floor of his cell. An independent enquiry has found enough evidence to charge Senior Sgt Hurley with manslaughter, but there is opposition from the police force to taking such action.
Aboriginal deaths in custody have been so common in Australia that a federal enquiry was instigated from 1987-1990, to investigate the situation. It found "There are few people in the Aboriginal community who have not been touched by a death in custody". It also uncovered the complexity and suffering of a people invaded, taken prisoner, humiliated, made subject to government ruling, and so on. A people who lived from and within a country, with intricate laws and beliefs that we did not, do not, understand, and because they seemed so foreign, alien, we did not know to respect and honour them. And so in a very short a space of time a tragedy unfolded. And continues today.
Australia is not unique, the world is checkered with history such as this. We are human, fallible and caught in a web of confusion, of them and us. It played out then, and sadly still does; our planet totters from one inhumanity to another, each and every day.
The wounds we inflict are our own, for we cannot unravel the threads that link our actions to their results, or others from us. There is no them and us, not really. I found this as i journeyed through my family's history, trying to find a place of respite, of reconciliation. There is only one such place: within my heart, or yours. That is where we can meet the perceived enemies and know their hearts beat in rhythm with ours, that their exhalation becomes our next breath. 'They' are not different from us in their essence, we only see it that way. Family, country, world. Me. You. It's all we have, it's what we share. May we all reach the common ground of open-minded kindness and equality that is the foundation of change.

being prayer

2007-01-31T10:20:00.000-08:00

My family was not one that embraced religion overtly; although we went to church on special religious days, I attended Sunday school as a child, and my education from grade school through graduation was at a Church of England school for girls. My parents, at least in my growing up years, were not actively religious in any defined traditional sense. What they offered us, however, was respect for qualities inherent in so many faiths: honesty, tolerance, integrity, equality, kindness, and a sense of social justice.
My father was a famous man during my childhood, a federal labour judge, who became Chief Justice of that court until retirement, and who helped define Australia’s history with decisions that supported fairness and equality in wage and living conditions, such as equal pay for women (some of his work now sadly dismantled as the tides have turned, the world a different place). My mother was a social worker who worked in prisons and with orphans and, later, with university students. Our comfortable home was a place of discussion and learning, where we were encouraged to develop an open mind.
Once, in my early and very rebellious twenties, I did something inherently dishonest that abused my father's trust in me, and could have destroyed his career, although he was in no way directly involved. I was thoughtlessly defiant in my action. When he found out, he did not get angry or chastise me, but spoke gently with me about what I had done, and its implications. This had an enormous impact on me; I remember sitting in his spacious office, walls of windows leaning into the magnificence of Sydney harbour, and feeling small and sad that in my blind arrogance I could have hurt someone who had loved and cherished me, each and every day of my life. That exchange taught me not only about my father, and why he was respected by so many, but more importantly I learned about integrity, consideration, and how one’s actions impact others. And he showed me that lessons could be taught through kindness, not harshness.
Of my own volition, I went through two very religious periods in my childhood. The first at about eight, where I thought a lot about Jesus, and would weep at how much he had suffered for us, and wished that I could take his pain away. Then again, for some time in my early teens, I attended church and Sunday Fellowship, a program for youth; I wanted to be one of Mother Teresa’s nuns, though would never have had the confidence to take such a journey.
Some years ago I found an essay I wrote for religious class at about age 15; the topic: “Buddhism”. I was startled to come across it, and it was an odd sort of concoction in some ways – I don’t know what my research sources were, but there was my first exploration of the faith that so many years later has cracked my heart open wide.
I prayed as a child: the more formal prayers in church or school, but also prayers from my heart. Sometimes the prayers were fervent, even desperate, trying to reach ‘out there’, across that invisible distance, with a clear voice. Prayer as a method to communicate with God or that essence or whatever I could name it, which always seemed so potentially vast, yet so separate from me. Beyond the stars.
Jetsunma urges us to pray, especially in these troubled times. When we recently offered to do a 24-hour prayer vigil one day each month at Dakini Valley, she said “Good, we need all the prayer we can get”. And, as many of you know, at her instigation KPC has for over 21 years held a 24-hour prayer vigil dedicated to the end of suffering and world peace. Unbroken. Day and night, every single moment. For over 2 decades. As Jetsunma reminded us some years ago, “Wherever you lay your head at night, someone is praying for you.” What a gift of love.
However, as I pray now, and even in the depths of despair as for Nyima the other night, prayer has a different meaning for me than in my childhood. Of course, I am still drawn to pray to the Guru or the Buddha of Compassion, as if they were somehow somewhere else. But I know they are not. They are as close to me as my breath, they are the beat of my heart, the blood in my veins. They are the source of the words that I utter, as well as the response. The turbulent storm and resultant calm both arise from the same great sea of potential.
For me, now, prayer is an expression of being; one’s life s becomes prayer. It is not something only to say, it is a method to realise that those very qualities we call out to are already present in our hearts and lives. The compassion is ours; the kindness is ours, the wisdom is ours, the courage and perseverance. The gift of prayer is that it changes the heart, and by changing the heart, the whole world shifts. This is its absolute magnificence and potency. Mother Teresa was one precious example of life as prayer. But we are really no different.
I am grateful for prayer. It is a solace in the darkness; it is the joy of laughter and gratitude. It is what unites so many of us, drawn to create an environment in which tolerance prospers. Whether we whisper or cry out in anguish, it is the softening of the heart that is so potent. As our hearts and minds become pliable, we will recognize the qualities in others and ourselves that will create the changes we yearn for. Prayer is not only an act, it is a state of mind. It is a commitment to basic goodness. It can be the moment we wake from sleep to embrace another day. It is who we are, what we are. We are the force of change, prayer helps us to remember this, and to know the strength and courage and compassion of our nature.
Both my parents are long dead, and I hold them in my heart. They laid the foundation that brought me to the precious place I now find myself in. They taught me honour and respect and kindness, to know one person can make a difference. Although I would not have thought it then, my childhood was never separate from the essence of prayer.

sorrow and fear

2007-01-25T20:59:00.000-08:00

Nyima did not come home with us today after our late afternoon walk. We had set off around 5pm, and did one of the regular short routes, this time to the back corner, past the earth ship meadow. I was wearing gumboots, because of the mud, and decided to wade home in the creek. Nyima crossed to the other bank, doing her independent thing. Milo cris-crossed, wanting to stay close. I lost track of Gypsy, but knew she would not stray.
My plan soon proved foolish, the creek is deepened by winter snow, and I quickly had 2 wet feet, icy cold. I climbed back up to the meadow, to be joined by Milo and Gypsy. The last thing I saw of Nyima, she was running along the hill behind the corral, barking. It is not so unusual for her to do this, and I have learned that fear does not help. I used to try and run after her, now I realize I have to let it go. Instead, I pray.
I pottered around in the yard with evening tasks– wood to be brought in, a short game with Milo….Gypsy hovered, wide-eyed, for her dinner. Regularly, I went to the back gate and called.
As night began to sheath the sky, my concern increased. I drove to the corral and called again; sometimes she will come to the car. The air was garlanded with sounds, as my ears searched for her. Was that the creek, or the tinkle of her collar? I went back home, alone.
I made 3 bowls of dinner, as always, but it seemed so strange to feed only two. Her absence filled the kitchen. The others sensed my anxiety, I think. They had a short raucous game together, but that, too, felt odd.
At about seven, I returned to the corral. Fortunately, the moon is half-full, and the landscape mutely visible. More rustling in the trees, but nothing. As you know, we have javalina here, and how many times have locals told me they can kill a dog. Not to mention the mountain lions recently heard close by.
My prayers increased in intensity, I felt so helpless. My feet, still in wet socks in the gumboots, were freezing, but that seemed so inconsequential. Again and again, I went to the gate, went towards the barn, called, looked, prayed; sorrow, hope and fear a potent mix in my mind. She has a thick coat, she will not freeze overnight. She will come home soon. She has a new tag on her collar, with my number. She is lying, her body torn and in pain, alone. I will stay up all night for her in prayer. What if she never comes back.
As my posts have perhaps relayed, the last months have held some difficult times for me, and even recently the days have not been smooth. Tonight that crystallised with Nyima’s absence, and I broke, sobbing with anguish. And I thought of every mother who lives constantly with this edge of sorrow and fear, all the people searching for those who are missing. All the beings who are lost and alone. And the thousands of families with sons and daughters fighting the war – any war – who must exist on this razored seesaw every moment, every day.
To be honest, my sobs were a mix of prayer and an overwhelming sense that I am not effective. Sometimes it all seems so hard, and I see so little movement or change. And how can I make a difference for many, when I cannot protect even one. The path I am on is precious beyond measure, I know this to the depths of my heart, and ultimately it is simple: requiring only compassion beyond self. But tonight I again recognized how excruciatingly challenging it also is, simply to be that which I am. My heart was ripped open for Nyima, and the fear that she was gone from my life.
At about 8 o’clock I went out again, and this time my ears rang true. She was at the front gate, waiting, icicles hanging from her belly, a little weary. I clutched her and wept, and thanked Tara and Guru Rinpoche for being my prayer and its response.
After eating, she got on the couch – her space to sleep. I sat beside her and stroked the silken softness of her coat. Milo joined us, as frequently happens in the evening, and settled on the other side of me, and then – for the very first time – Gypsy came over and asked to be included. I made her a little space and she jumped up next to me. All of us, together on the small couch, in the warmth of our home. Gypsy stood for a few minutes, Nyima nestled at her feet, then she bent and gently placed her nose to her sister’s, and gave a brief wag of her tail, before jumping off and back to her bed. I know we were all relieved that she had some home, safely.
And I wish this, from the depths of my heart, for every being lost, and for those that search for the missing. Or who anxiously wait, not knowing. Yet the essence of my prayer is that we all will swiftly discover we are neither alone nor apart, we cannot truly be lost. We may experience the anguish of sorrow and fear, as I did so deeply tonight, but within and beyond that is a ribbon of compassion, joy and certainty that binds me to you, and them to us.

within the stillness

2007-01-17T14:48:00.000-08:00

Threads of winter have woven in the creek; in the numbing cold of our morning walks the water is frozen, sheathed with crystal, inlaid with crisscrossed tracery. Beneath, the rocky bed is decorated with the chocolate and gold of sycamore leaves, their edges blurred by the icy covering. The only signs of movement are where the creek descends, and water has transgressed the ice, clambering over rock piles: determined, urgent.
I am reminded that within the stillness is activity, and within activity, stillness. The creek appears stationary, silent, peaceful: frozen in space. Yet within what I perceive, the water still moves constantly from here, to there. Action and stillness, inseparable, united, in this small piece of time and space.

writing, the heart

2007-01-16T09:05:00.000-08:00

You know its cold when the water in the toilet bowl is frozen, as I discovered in Jetsunma’s laundry room: and that at the end of the day, not at the beginning! The air turned bitter yesterday afternoon as we were feeding the dogs; I wrapped my scarf as best I could around my naked skull, but that was negligible protection. By the time I got home toes, fingers, bones were chilled. Many of the dogs enjoyed snuggling in their igloos, while others rejoice in this weather – out and about even as it snows. Nyima is like that, as well: snow, rain – she is oblivious. Poor Milo and Gypsy get chilled and shivery sometimes, and I rug them up in jackets or sweaters – something Milo is happy with once on, but the dressing process itself..…!!!
I am sorry to be a delinquent blogger, it is not due to a lack of wanting – it’s far subtler than that. The temperature doesn’t help – the computer is in Jetsunma’s library, which is next to the laundry and also unheated and uninsulated, and the water in the dog bowl there is frozen, an indication of how I feel if I spend any time at all in front of the screen. Certainly not conducive to reflective or creative writing. I have now set up a loaned laptop in the log cabin main room – the only heated space - and I was given one of those gizmos the size of your thumb that manages to store uncountable words in its memory, so now I can write in warmth, and sometime later download it as a post.
But its not just the weather, I guess, it’s also that time seems to be shrinking, even as the days grow marginally longer. Despite any good intentions, I am perpetually three steps, three lists, three days (whatever measure I use!) behind where I think I should be, creating a constant, low level hum of stress in my mind. You can see I have not mastered the technique of being in the present, of just letting it go. Although I will say, I am noticeably better than a few years ago, when the internal tension sometimes became almost unbearable – the sense I should be doing something other than whatever activity I was actually engaged in, combined with a perverse resistance to change either the activity, or the thought (or sometimes even to do anything at all), that made living within my own mind an awful dance of despair, for which I was the sole choreographer!
And it not really the time, either – it’s more that life is not what it was in many ways (ah! is this a reflection of impermanence!), and in the readjustment, or however to describe it, sitting down to write has slipped slightly by the way.
A couple of years ago, in exactly this darkened, cold season, I wrote a book about living at Dakini Valley and practice. I sat at this very same window, on this very same laptop, and most every night reflected, and wrote. I was the sole resident here, and sharply aware of the wilderness embracing me; life at the Valley was a different experience than now. Nyima had just joined our family, and Gypsy and I were adjusting to her puppy exuberance.
I was disciplined about writing – which I love to do anyhow, but this process became a practice in itself. The idea for the book had arisen in Jetsunma’s mind, so I knew to embrace it fully would bring more than pages of words. And it did; taking the time to contemplate my life here, and the meaning of practice, helped me recognize better the sameness of the two, and in turn the very acts of contemplation and writing became potent. Before I began, as I sat at the desk, I would say prayers, so that the words arose from the intention of benefit, and then the process of writing was a method for softening my mind. It was a great gift Jetsunma offered me - doing what I love became a tool for knowing the potential inherent in every moment.
Which is not to say I have continued to live with that awareness, but of course neither is it lost, it cannot be. It is the shape and colour and texture and sound of my nature, our nature, but I forget that most of the time.
I was reminded of it tonight, as I went out, flashlight in hand, to remove the peanut filled feeder from the tree, often emptied overnight by the resident family of raccoons. The ground glittered, as if embedded with diamonds, or as if I walked on the sky itself, bejeweled with stars. Momentary flashes, arising and disappearing in less than a breath, yet splendid in simplicity. The earth rich, bursting with light, both hidden and visible all at once. I remember it was like that one night in the winter of writing, although at that time the ground was crisp with snow. I was deeply touched by the magnificence of this place – its capacity to be all that is possible: beauty, joy, awareness – in every single moment.
Our hearts are like that, studded with jewels, the true value of which we forget, or ignore. But they glitter all the same, like a treasure chest, just waiting for the moment when we remember to look inside, and recognize the precious qualities always there.

a wonderful new year for all

2006-12-31T20:47:00.000-08:00

Never Give up
No matter what is going on
Never give up
Too much energy in your country
is spent developing the mind
instead of the heart
Be compassionate
Not just to your friends
but to everyone
Be compassionate
Work for peace
in your heart and in the world
Work for peace
and I say again
Never give up
No matter what is happening
No matter what is going on around you
Never give up.

HH The XIVth Dalai Lama

a whiskery face

2006-12-19T17:33:00.000-08:00

Nyima and Milo - especially the Liddaboy - are eager to earn their cowboy hats. Some weeks ago, while on our morning walk in the back meadow, we came across 2 large cows (one with impressive horns), a calf and a small bull, who had transgressed the fence. Joyfully, my pair raced up barking and chasing and manouvered the cows across that field, and then the next one, to a small gate bedecked with prayer flags, in the far corner. All of us were somewhat astonished by this turn of events, but, not wanting to miss an opportunity, I crawled under the fence and opened the gate from the other side. Naturally the cows backed away, towards Milo. He held his ground (despite those big horns on a large, reluctant cow), so there they were, nowhere to go except forward. He helped me move them through, as Nyima barked and ran up and down as back-up; i was very proud.
Well, the other day we encountered horses. On our morning run, beyond the gate, Gypsy and I both still in the truck, I spied a pick-up ahead, coming our way, so I pulled over next to the small dam. Then I heard Nyima, out of sight, barking with her "there is a big animal here", voice (different from her javalina or rabbit bark). I started calling, as Letha Cline - our friend from Young who owns the cows and horses we encounter - crawled along in her pick-up, bales of alfalfa in the back. Quite unexpectedly, she had found the horses way past our gate and, fortunately, she had their feed , so they were plodding happily behind.
Milo saw his chance to prove to Letha what a hero he is (Letha has taken a shine to the Liddaboy), and decided to help, herding them along, snapping at their heels, but keeping a safe distance. I called in my most authoritative voice, to which Nyima responded and jumped in the truck, but Milo had a more important job to accomplish. So the procession continued the 1/2 mile to the gate - 4 horses trotting, Milo in the middle of the road, barking, Letha in her pick-up, and the girls and I (Nyima beside herself with excitement that she couldn't be part of the fun) at the rear. Milo and the horses passed through our opened gate, at which point Letha and I stopped; enough was enough! I called even more ferociously, and this time, a proud Liddaboy turned back to our truck.
He is a joyful, not-so-little, dog. He paddles rather than walks, but always with an electric charge of happiness in his step; it makes me laugh to watch him paddle on his long legs towards me. His full formal name is actually Miles (Edward) O'Brien, a moniker rarely used (in honour not of the cable TV reporter, but Chief of Operations, Deep Space Nine). He has a couple of odd quirky habits, however. He is peculiar about breakfast - often stepping back as if I were offering him a repugnant dish, and sitting at a distance, only eating 5 minutes later.
And he hates to get in the car.
I have never known a dog to be so consistently reluctant - fearful - of getting in a vehicle. Nyima was like that at first, I am sure due to some bitter experience, but she quickly learned that cars are fun - open windows, travel, new sights and smells - and now is as eager as Gypsy for the gate to open so they can leap inside.
Not our Milo. He dances with them at the outset, but when the gate is opened he runs away. Every day the same. I call, plead, offer treats, we side-step back and forth around the broad oak trunk next to the gate. I point out to him the girls are in the car, we are going for a walk, but even, after 10 months of rides that only have pleasant outcomes, he somehow associates getting in the car with something bad.
It's no easier when the walk is finished. There we go round and round the car, or sometimes he sits underneath and won't come out, even gently snapping at me. Of course, eventually, somehow I win and cuddle him, lift him in, and tell him what a good boy he is. But nothing has yet changed his mind about that moment of choice to get inside of his own free will.
He has decided to shift his place in the pack - a move not supported by me; Nyima, however, is such a precious, gracious being she doesn't really care, as long as no-one is hurt or upset. Milo has been working at winning Gypsy over - not to challenge her, I think (that would be most unacceptable, all around), but because he knows she is the top dog. This morning I was so happy to watch Gypsy and he have a rough and tumble chasing game, she most vocal. Of course Nyima, always ready for play - joined in, but I have never seen Gypsy so directly interact with Miles.
My family - what can I say! They are an important part of my life, teach me, liven me up, ground me, make me laugh. Without Gypsy I would never have survived those early months here on my own, so to her i owe an immeasurable amount. Perhaps I wish I had trained them better, so they would always listen to me, not just at their own discretion. Then, without a doubt, Milo would earn his cowboy hat. As it is, well, I am not so sure. Not that it really matters to him or me, chasing cows and horses is fun, but better still is sitting on the couch leaning close, his whiskery face being stroked, his eyes growing heavy, until final collapse into a not-so-big ball of contentment.

breaking through

2006-12-13T16:45:00.000-08:00

when i was in my early twenties I had a nervous breakdown. It was a cataclysmic experience, unlike anything I had ever endured, and even, some thirty years later, it still stands out in my lifespan quite unlike any other event.
it was so absolute and all-encompassing; if I had known to recognise the signs it may not have been so starkly suprising to wake up one day and have no idea who I was. I remember that day so vividly, it followed a night of such extreme inner restlessness that I walked in the mid-night darkness through streets in a city i did not know, to find the home of someone I did. I entered her home and paced the kitchen, not understanding what was going on, only realising something was terribly wrong. The household stirred, and we talked for a while, before I slept on the couch. The next day when I awoke there was an invisible glass wall between me and the world. i could not think, barely speak. I remember someone telling me i was scaring them, i was not myself. My response "How can you know who I am, I do not know who that is."
The following days were excrutiating. I had lost my identity, and was living in a shell no longer familiar. People I knew, in this city where I did not live, were kind. They had to lead me around like a small child; even the simplest question, "coffee or tea?", was unanswerable, I had no idea about anything. No frame of reference, so sense of past, just this fearful disconnect with the world i found myself in.
I travelled the several hundred miles back to my home city, hoping to find respite. There was none. I remember walking into my bedroom - my bedroom, where I had lived for maybe a year, where everything was mine - the books, the clothes, the posters, the bed. I stood in the doorway, a stranger, thinking - whose room is this. Intellectually, I knew it was mine, but there was no sense of belonging, of familiarity. It was a room, a life, I was its inhabitant, but I had lost the map to guide me through each day, each thought.
The friends I lived with were generous in their kindness, without their support I don't know where I would have gone. I saw a counsellor - only once- took no medication; i just lived with it, through it, being someone i wasn't, or didn't know. I remember walking into bookshops and drowning in the information and words sheathed in the covers on the shelves. I felt so empty and inadequate, incapable of thought or clarity. I yearned to know it all, be it all, instead I was swamped with confusion. I became incredibly open and honest with others regarding myself at this time; there was no-one to hide within. I was naked, exposed, vulnerable. I had to lay my heart and mind on the table with each and every encounter.
I suppose it was some inner resilience that go me through, after many many months. Somehow the inner and outer began to re-align, the dischord diminished. It was not so much that I became the person I had been, I learned to live as the person I had become. It was a fearful, painful, agonising period of my life.
I have lived through other events since then, where my world has fallen apart and i have not known how to survive - yet did - but this was the only time that my very sense of self completely shattered, where there seemed to be nothing to build on, to cling to, to work with.
Today I reflected on this period of my life, as I live through a time where my confidence is low. I am not anywhere near the place I was then - and I now have the tools of my faith to nurture me through anything - but I realised that in a way, this experience of my youth was both a turning point then, and a lesson for now. It was about letting go at a deep and fundamental level to any and every claim of familiar self. Habits, ideas, responses were stripped, or lost, or forgotten. There was nowhere to turn and no place to hide. Raw discomfort was my daily experience.
Who am i? Still, even now, I don't really know. I have replaced those habits, or re-kindled them, in the intervening years. Yet now I aspire to shed them, to break through and find that rawness, to expose that nakedness. To realise that which I have always held to be true - my very sense of self - is ultimately that which separates me from the deep, precious truth of who i truly am.

not much to say

2006-12-12T17:20:00.000-08:00

Thoughts for posts drift in and out of my mind; a couple are waiting for me to sit down and allow them to unfurl. But I am not in that place, right now. I am not in much of a place at all.
Hard to describe, and it doesn't really matter, because like every moment or feeling or thought it is so transitory that ultimately it defies description. It is not an inspired or inspiring place, however, so as much as writing is like a second skin to me, i cannot engage.
It is so much easier to do so many things when one is feeling really good, or perhaps even really bad. That furnace of extreme emotion can fuel activity, ideas, action. A place that feels devoid or flat may obscure the myriad dimensions of possibility.
It feels like a time of transition, i am neither here nor there. S0metimes fragile, wobbly, uncertain. Of what? That is the question i can never answer. Not of my path or faith, just everything else.
I went to Payson yesterday, took the whole family, I think to add substance to my frailty. We ended up spending close to 5 hours at the mechanics - me sitting in the lobby watching CNN, my babies sitting in the truck while the tires were changed and the brakes replaced. What an unsual day for them! Up on the hoist, all the activity. The mechanics didn't seem to mind, told me how sweet they were. And not one of the three said a word when a stranger took the vehicle - and them - for a test drive. Seems it didn't matter who was behind the wheel, as long as the window was open and something was happening! We went to the leash free park afterwards, as a reward for their patience; the truck interior is not so big! I think all in all, they had a good day. But is was late and dark by the time we got home.
The weather seems uncertain, as I am. Tonight the sky is covered again, the air biting. There was an expectation of snow a few days ago, which then passed by. Who knows what will happen now. Not me, I am sure of that.

our billy

2006-11-30T09:59:00.000-08:00

I wanted to share this news I just got from Sonja:
"Billy is doing much better now. No more blood in his poo. We are visiting them almost every 2 days and stay for about 3 hours. They are all much happier now. They all get put in the same enclosure every day to spend time together. When we come we take them out to a large play area with trees and grass where they all can run around, play ball or just sit with us snuggling. All the prayers are helping. Please keep them up until they come out of quarantine on the 15th of December. We are half way there now!!"
Many thanks to everyone who is helping Billy pull through!!

Me, too?

2006-11-29T10:37:00.000-08:00

Last night around 7.30 I received a phone call from Megan, who wanted me to deliver a message to Cian up at the ranchhouse before he left at first light today to take Khen to the vet to be snipped. I grumbled; I had just lit the fire and put chicken soup on the stove to warm. It had been a cold drizzly day, and now was a dark, cold night. The thought of walking the 1/2 mile or so was unwelcoming, to say the least. I pulled on my boots and jacket. I discarded the first torch I picked up, the batteries were weak. I idly contemplated taking Nyima- the cold weather increases her energy factor by a zillion - but decided alone would be more efficient. Thank goodness!
The drizzle had ceased, but the sky was impenetrable with cloud, and vision limited. I walked briskly up the small rise past Jetsunma's driveway, and started on the long, straight treeless stretch to the ranchhouse, where in the distance a single speck of yellow illuminated my destination.
Suddenly to the right I heard a grunt. Javalina. I turned and saw a darkened mass amidst the pale, long grass. I kept walking, knowing that to panic or move quickly entices them to charge. I hoped it would keep on its way. A few steps later, however, I understood what was actually happening. I had waded into a sea of javalina crossing the road, and was completely surrounded. I stopped. The odour penetrated my senses (they smell somewhat like skunks), there was grunting from several directions. I could see forms, barely discernible, arising and dissolving in the grass. More closely, in the light from my flashlight, were large males, maybe 4 feet distant from me.
I uttered "Du sum Sangye", the first three words of a potent protective prayer we say, but then a more primitive response set in. I began, in my large, loud voice the javalina war-cry, well practiced from attacks on my dogs. A constant gutteral scream of "aaaaarghh", modulating slightly, but never ceasing. I swung the flashlight back and forth in an arc, hoping the strobe effect would bewilder their nearly blind eyes. The males did not back off in fear, but moved around, clearly visible in the beam - one a few feet to my right, its large snout twitching in the air - took steps towards me. I was fearful, but not panicked. Clear, sharp thoughts flashed in my mind. The yellow light of the ranchhouse, the idea of calling for help, but who would hear, the imagined sensation of those serrated tusks tearing my flesh, the need for rabies shots, the sense of total vulnerability, aloneness. I stood and screamed and waved, focussed only on that moment, that place, that event. I looked around for a tree to move to - the single one was 10 feet back towards Jetsunma's . The javalina were unsure of me, and no attack had begun. I moved towards the tree, only to realise that they were at its base as well. The banshee scream continued to rise from my throat, the arc of light to slice through the darkness, as I walked in a measured, steady pace back towards Jetsunmas. After the crest I was silent. No-one followed.
I was shaking by the time I retreated inside. I called Megan and told her of the event, and that the message would never be delivered. We chatted and laughed. Afterwards, I sat with the feeling, it had been an extreme and direct experience. Javalina are vicious, and ours are no longer fearful of humans. Even a local cowboy - a real-life, horse-riding, cattle-hustling man of the land -told me he climbed a tree when caught in their path, so it is not some imagined danger I had tasted first hand.
I contemplated a teaching Jetsunma recently gave about the bardo experience - that after death event where the chaos of karma arises, and you experience light, sounds, images in a bombardment of confusion. So much of what we do on the Path is to prepare us for that, to subdue the reactiveness of our minds, so that there is a deeper awareness and understanding, a calm to endure the storm, and see it for what it is, just the echo and reflection of our habits. Did I pass the 'bardo-test' on my walk last night?! I cetainly did not generate myself as a deity, or remember the ultimate emptiness, I was very much in the relative reality of the event. But I am glad that I did not react with panic, as I once may have done. There was a clarity in dealing with the drama, of responding with fear in a way that got me out, not deeper in.
I was most aware, as I stood on the seemingly endless stretch of road - the ranchhouse so far away, the javalina so close and encircling, cloaked in the vast darkness of night - of how alone I was. Not a 'wish someone was here to help me' feeling, just an acute, stark awareness. We are taught again and again, that in our lives, on this Path, we are ultimately alone. We have friends and family and beloved pets who comfort and support us, but in that moment of death - or perhaps in many moments in our lives - we will be faced with the realisation that there is nobody who can help us. We cling to the familiar because we fear this - it is too big, too hard, too sorrowful to accept. But last night I glimpsed it just for a moment. I cannot say this one event will shift the way I live or practice, but I hope it serves as a contemplative reminder of how vulnerable we all are. There is no true place of refuge to be found, except in the kindness, wisdom and compassion of our deep, abiding nature, always present in our hearts.

Billy Elliott

2006-11-23T17:28:00.000-08:00

Billy Elliott (centre) and friends

Not all of you know Billy Elliott, the dog (so named because he loves to dance!), so let me share with you a snapshot of his life over the past year or so.

Rescued by Best Friends from the poisonous wreckage of New Orleans, he was christened Mr Scruffy, and it was in that guise he boarded the emergency jet which brought him, and nearly 130 other animals, to Dakini Valley. He did not stay here long, though, in the seething barking rows of emergency shelters we had constructed. He caught the eye of Sonja, one of the Tara's Babies team who had been on-site in NO, and she noticed he had badly infected paws. She, and her partner Christine, brought the very subdued young boy inside, and bathed and bandaged his paws. He couldn't go back to to the outside run and we, still overwhelmed by the influx of many dogs in need, had nowhere to care for him, so they took him back home to Sedona.

A corner of their living room was partitioned off as a play centre, and to separate him from their 2 fluffballs, Mim and Hari. Slowly he improved, and his inner energy re-ignited. But they were adamant they did not want a third dog. Partly because they were still grieving for another NO rescue who had won their (and Hari's) hearts, the diminuative Peanut, who had gone straight to their home after the long drive back across country. She had contracted Parvo from her innoculation - perhaps too young and weak after the trauma she had experienced? - and died a horrible death, in Sonja's arms. The family (Hari especially) was distraught.

However, I did want a third dog, for my playful Nyima, so it was agreed that when he got well, Billy would come to live with us.

Not unexpectedly, in caring for Billy, the attachment grew, yet they insisted they did not want to keep him. So Billy was delivered to us at Dakini Valley where, with much joy, he joined the pack. Nyima and he loved each other, playing from early morning. Even Gypsy joined in, and the 2 girls would get Billy on his back on the couch , with play growls and wagging, cavorting and chewing. We all delighted in their antics, everyone was happy.

Except Sonja and Christine. The separation opened some wounds, and they were very distressed. It was as if Billy represented the horror and suffering they had witnessed first hand - the indescribable destruction, death, animals injured and coated with stinking, poisonous sludge. Billy somehow seemed to be a method, an antidote, a way to pour love and caring back into a shattered world.

It was a very difficult and confused time for us all, and the foundation of our friendship shifted for a while, as they called to ask for him back, and then, out of love for me, would say I could keep him. The others at Dakini Valley supported me through the tears and shifting sands, but eventually it was inevitable; I sent Billy back. I remember standing outside the ranchhouse, sobbing into Alyce-Louise's arms, Billy, confused, pawing desperately at the window as he was driven away. Nyima was bereft, I had never seen her so depressed. I vowed then to find her another friend, which is how the rascally Liddaboy joined us some months later.

It tooks some adjusting for Mim and Hari, Billy is non-stop effervescent, and bigger than both of them. But eventually Hari learned to play with Billy, and Billy learned to respect the miniature Mim as the alpha queen (despite appearances, our Mim is a force to be reckoned with). Billy blossomed (and, I might add, enlarged significantly at the waistline!), although beset with continous health problems. Nothing too serious, but probably all still the results of his post-Katrina experience, in the fetid environment. Sonja and Christine tended him lovingly all the way through.

I did not visit their home for some months, it seemed too hard. But when I stayed there recently, just before they left, it was lovely to see Billy jumping and running and bouncing from room to room.

Two weeks before their departure, tickets already booked, Billy's blood test failed the rigorous Australian laws. Sonja and Christine were devastated; I offered to look after him, he would always find love with us. But of course, separation was unthinkable. Many prayers and circumambulations of the Stupa later, it was found that although the levels were high, on that particular test, he could still travel. The family drove to LA, the doglets were crated for the long flight across the ocean, and sent on their way. Sonja and Christine took a later flight.

Australia is rabies-free, so one-month quarantine is compulsory, with twice weekly visiting rights for owners. Hari and Mim, housed together, are doing fine. But Billy, I have just heard, is not coping. He is very stressed, which is affecting him mentally and causing bowel problems. No doubt the long journey, and separation from his 'new' family, re-kindled the horrors of last year. So much for a small young dog, who only wants love, to have endured.

I am sure Sonja and Christine are devastated, and feeling helpless that they cannot be with him, and perhaps guilty to have put him in this situation. I imagine the quarantine staff are doing all they can, but the environment can be nothing like the nurturing comforts of home. They have let Jetsunma know, and are asking everyone to offer prayers.

So I ask that of you, too - to pray for Billy's swift recovery, and for Sonja and Christine. And to pray for all beings who are ill, alone, fearful, lost, who have suffered beyond that which seems possible. Because Billy is only one, who has touched our hearts, but there are countless more. May our lives make a difference for them all.

dog blog

2006-11-13T20:14:00.000-08:00

This is a quick in-betweener to let you know of another blog coming via this very same computer. Written by Raven, Tara's Babies on-site manager with a heart of gold, it will provide touching snapshots of the dogs at Dakini Valley. Check it out here.

stash

2006-11-11T17:02:00.000-08:00

I have spent a few days in Sedona, doing business things and saying good-bye to my friends Sonja and Christine who are re-tracing their steps to Alice Springs, from where our connection to Jetsunma blossomed. It is a journey of going back to move forward - the regulations of where you were born and where you have lived and where you wish now to be, sometimes dictate our placement in time and space. They hope to return sometime, but meanwhile there is the unravelling and letting go. I stayed in their home, a scene of regulated chaos of objects and piles and boxes, some empty, some full, and stacking and sorting and stacking again. And sorrow. It is so enormous and almost unbelievable that they won't be here, they have been such an integral part of our KPC family.
They have, in 5 years, accumulated quite a lot. One does. So there is the constant decision making of what to keep and what to discard, whom to pass what on to. Things to ship and things to store. We all went through this when we left Australia; indeed they are returning to 200 hundred or something boxes stored neatly back there. None of us realised when we left that we would be away for years, possibly forever. I, too, have things stored - they will sort through my collection, whatever it may be. Stuff I felt was so important 51/2 years ago and which, for the most part, I cannot remember at all!
How we like to collect - objects, habits, ideas, without which we think we cannot function and yet......for the most part, as Jetsunma recently said, nonsense. Even out here, with limited space, my possessions have expanded beyond the 2 suitcases I arrived with. My clutter balloons to fill the available room, in place and mind, often spilling over in to every nook and cranny. It can frustrate me, even define me, and still I hoard it all! It is when you watch the dissolution, as now in Sedona, you can see how meaningless so much of it can be.
At least the mice have a purpose when they stash! I have been coming across unexpected suprises of peanuts and acorns. Recently I reached into my empty book bag, hanging on a hook on the wall, and there discovered a large supply of acorns. I later watched a mouse hurriedly transverse the wooden wall to deposit more, or perhaps to check the balance. In the small bathroom upstairs, I pulled a folded towel off the shelf and out poured more acorns. The cupboard below the sink was hiding peanuts. And last night - after only 3 days away - I opened my bedside drawer to discover another large stash of peanuts, buried beneath my journal. How busy and ingenious they have been!
But despite our tendency to want to stash and hoard, to try and fix the status quo, the world changes. Even in this brief period of absence the landscape has drastically altered here. The sycamores are all but naked, many plants wilted and yellowed by frost. There is a sense of barrenness, of sparsity, of shedding. The sky was grey, the air cool today. I changed the prayer flags, and the brilliance of the colours glowed in the otherwise flattened atmosphere.
Tomorrow is Lha Bab Duchen, a holy day for Buddhists, a day where the effects of thoughts and activities - positive or negative - are magnified 10 million times. A wonderful day for prayer, for kindness, for being mindful, for beginning a new life of compassion, or re-kindling the heart again. Thinking of others, of the world, of how we can make a change, by letting go of those habits and hoards which pin us down, and becoming soft and flexible with the energy of movement, mercy and love. And in your prayers I would ask you to include my beloved Gypsy Rose, who had a run-in with a big, fat javalina today, and has a slash on her side. The wound itself, while quite ugly, is not deep and should heal, but she is an older, sensitive girl, and very traumatised by the event. She is wrapped in a blanket on my bed, and looks at me with round, worried eyes when I come in the room. It is distressing, because she has been my comfort and support since I first lived here alone, and I owe her so much.
Letting go of those we love is almost the hardest thing to do, yet even that, one day, is inevitable. This is why we - now - should contemplate what truly is of value, what to keep and what to let go. How to begin to live our lives so that they make a difference. I really don't want to live with a cupboard of stuff, a drawer filled with peanuts and a mind cluttered with nonsense. It's time to haul it all out and review. I may not be travelling back to move forward, yet still i have to let go.

of this and that

2006-11-04T17:21:00.000-08:00

As the days shrink to the size of a postage stamp, it is harder to squeeze it all in. I don't even know where the minutes disappear to, but suddenly - again - it is night. My afternoon walks with the dogs are now laden with dusk, we rarely make it outside the yard before the sun has been swallowed by wilderness. Tonight, as we turned the bend near the back gate of the property, I was stunned by the sight of the moon - round, resplendant, gleaming: surely a throne for the Guru. The protector mountain was still and clear in the last of the light, a film of pink clouds framing its majesty. I stopped still in my tracks, just for a moment.
I have wanted to describe the startling yellow of leaves against penetrating blueness of sky, the view from the meadows high on the property, where I scrambled across rocks and gullies to reach the far fence and hang no trespassing signs; from there you peek right over the mountains to the Mogollan rim,and beyond. The world peels back from its fixed point of reference into the place where the unknown resides. The biting cold mornings where we search for a scrap of sun on our walks, and i ferret around looking for firewood. It has become part of our daily ritual - a small back pack every morning and evening, filled to bursting with what I can break and carry. Unloading it at home is the real game; Nyima and Milo think they are ALL for them, and often have to choose at least one stick to carry away, and quickly discard.
I spent a few days last week working with the dogs of Tara's Babies. Still some familiar faces, for those that know - Wolfie, Tibet (Scruffy found a home!), the smattering of pitbulls - the gentleman Cuddles everyone's favourite to walk! Then there are the ferals, who have come such a long way since their February arrival. Most of them eat from the hand, and one - Wangchung, a teddy bear chow reminiscent of Sandy - was brough inside to learn home habits, and quickly became part of Raven's (our on-site carer) pack; he has now adopted TWO!, but promises no more. He has, however, from the kindness of his heart, taken our newest recruit in to stay with his family. Khen is a big, strong, white dog (think Archie), not very old, who has borne the brunt of fights and has large infected wounds on his neck. He was delivered to us by a teenage boy from Young and his dad, when he was dumped on the road near their home, and the humane society said it would euthanise him. Why? he is almost 100% blind and deaf. He is an Australian Shepherd mix(he has Nyima's beeyootiful nose), known as a 'Lethal' Aussie (terrible name), and 1 in 4 of these are born with severe disabilities like his. He is so loving and gorgeous, his opaque eyes flickering. But when left in a pen, it transpired he is also an escape artist extraordinare. After 6 escapes (he didn't run, just wanted to be with people) Raven - who has the biggest, softest heart - took him in. So he now stays in the yurt. Yesterday I gave him a comforter which once was Jetsunma's, and which Gypsy likes to sleep on; Raven told me he is very happy with it!
I have been listening to Jetsunma's recent musical offering to us - i have it on repeat as i do chores - and it is seeping in to cracks deep within. The first few times, of course, I listened with very ordinary ears - did i like this bit better, or that; i noted the harmonies and the guitar. I heard the words. But now it is more than that - i am beginning to know the words, to feel the words, to sense the meaning. The whole Path seems to float on that voice, pristine, penetrating, it is a serenade of both promise and accomplishment. Perhaps - finally - there is a glimpse that the new beginning of which she sings is now, in our hearts. It is the overt activity in which we all are engaged, but it is also something else....that may be the dance we see, but the rhythm is timeless. The days seem to become the size of a stamp - can we fit one more thing in - and yet the texture they offer, the opportunity in every tiny moment is, in fact, the potential of all things. In your day, and in mine.