An afternoon trek with friends leads us to a small hydroelectric plant which gives us our occasional electricity, and beyond to the bright turquoise porch of a family friend.
The walk is an adventure I am very ready for, after a weekend full of being at home, chatting in a language I barely understand about household chores I am still inept at doing in the Haitian way.
On the road: many friendly faces, hot pink houses, impossibly green fruit trees growing out of white rocks seeming to be dry as bone.
A few old women along the route gaze at me like I am stone until I greet them in Kreyol and they melt into smiles.
The kids are cheeky and full of life.
Men are not as easy for me, in any country. It's just a function of personality and perception, maybe. We pass a group of men with loud music. One of them stands up, chanting to the beat, "blan kraze peyi nou"--whites collapse/destroy our country.
Uncomfortable, but generally true.
The other men who overhear him don't greet me back fully when I greet them. Very odd in rural Haiti not to greet someone back.
We continue on, my friends chatting away and teasing my little 3 year old friend as we go.
The white stone is stunning, the little waterfalls, the ease of things.
Later, coming home again, we approach the place where the men were gathered, though the music has stopped.
Friends who know Ayiti (Haiti) had told me, but it amazes me how true it is: hundreds of years of power imbalance related to skin color and country of origin can indeed be momentarily dissipated if you are willing to publicly humiliate yourself.
As we approached the group of men with the music, my friend Dieunie balanced a large bag of dried beans and plantains we were carrying on her head, to carry it more easily in the Haitian way.
"Let me try," I said.
"You're going to try?" Dieunie asked, laughing.
We walked along slowly as the bag slipped off my head a dozen times and all the men laughed themselves silly at the "blan" and my amusing inability to perform normal Haitian tasks.
The negative energy from before disappeared. I might be a fool, but now I'm their fool--in 1,000 ways, a 1,000 times a day. Opening my arms to let in the laughter, getting a little bit bigger every time. One day I may be big enough to truly call this home.
April 20, 2010
April 15, 2010
April 15, 2010 Kay Jakmel, Haiti - no mangos with roasted corn and the color red
There is an auntie at my house who is full of magic. She likes to greet me by squeezing me all over, grabbing places that might be offensive if she weren't an old woman. Startling at first, but now I know she is just being warm.
She knows what leaves are good for what illness, how to make my little two year old friend laugh, and what you can't eat together if you don't want to get sick. No mangos with roasted corn on the same day, for example.
She's also got magic. There's something going on there under the surface, and--at night when the stars are out sometimes and we're sitting on the porch with the banana leaves swaying--I think I might catch a glimpse.
Soon I have to go to her with a notebook and drill her about when it is appropriate to eat fruit--because the soursop, the mangos, the papaya are amazing, but every time I'm sitting down to eat one she says, slightly exasperated at my dense nature and amused--"No! Not now! That one is for later. It will give you gas!"
The fruits are falling of the trees--please auntie, just one mango?
This morning she was helping my Creole tutor explain the meaning of colors to me. Red is for joy, blue for sincerity, yellow for betrayal, purple for the dead.
Even small children here know this. Here I am, a small child again, happy to have someone who knows about life to help me figure it all out.
She knows what leaves are good for what illness, how to make my little two year old friend laugh, and what you can't eat together if you don't want to get sick. No mangos with roasted corn on the same day, for example.
She's also got magic. There's something going on there under the surface, and--at night when the stars are out sometimes and we're sitting on the porch with the banana leaves swaying--I think I might catch a glimpse.
Soon I have to go to her with a notebook and drill her about when it is appropriate to eat fruit--because the soursop, the mangos, the papaya are amazing, but every time I'm sitting down to eat one she says, slightly exasperated at my dense nature and amused--"No! Not now! That one is for later. It will give you gas!"
The fruits are falling of the trees--please auntie, just one mango?
This morning she was helping my Creole tutor explain the meaning of colors to me. Red is for joy, blue for sincerity, yellow for betrayal, purple for the dead.
Even small children here know this. Here I am, a small child again, happy to have someone who knows about life to help me figure it all out.
April 7, 2010 - Port au Prince, Ayiti
I just came from a displaced camp in Port au Prince that is a pretty tough place. There is a zone within the camp where a lot of the prisoners went, who escaped when the prison collapsed. It’s not an easy place to be a woman.
When I first entered the camp a couple of weeks ago, I came looking for potential support people for survivors of domestic and sexual violence. I asked a lot of questions about who was listened to and respected in the community—who were the people women fled to when they needed help? I talked to the women who were named by others as those people who could help.
I got more and more discouraged, because one by one, the first 8 I talked to didn’t want to be involved. They said: yes, women are beaten here all the time, and raped. We hear them screaming and there is no one to help them. Sometimes they come to us, but we don’t want them to. If we don’t know them, we turn them away. It’s too dangerous to get involved because their husband might be one of the “vagabonds”. Little by little, we found women who were not afraid and wanted to help. They had incredible spirits and guts and life to contribute.
They mostly didn’t know each other, but we invited them to training. We held several days of reflective training on peer counseling and basic community network building related to violence against women. Yesterday was the last day of formal training, so today I went back to check out how they were thinking about things now and what they had learned. They did role plays to show how good they’ve become at listening and non-directive options giving.
Then we started to chat. They started to sing a song they’d learned from other women in training, and we got up to dance. People’s capacity for spontaneous joy in places that don’t make it seem possible is astounding to me. Other women looked and laughed and came out of their tents to see what the joy was about. Then the women wanted to show us their homes, and we marched through the part of the camp that so many had considered to be too dangerous to help survivors in.
Big, tough guys stood among children and families, looking on as these 10 incredible women marched through their neighborhood like they finally owned the place. We met the families of the participants, and we danced together. And here is the miracle that keeps me going: seeing the joy of those women who are unafraid to be joyful, other women started smiling.
THAT is what I get to do for a living. How lucky am I?
When I first entered the camp a couple of weeks ago, I came looking for potential support people for survivors of domestic and sexual violence. I asked a lot of questions about who was listened to and respected in the community—who were the people women fled to when they needed help? I talked to the women who were named by others as those people who could help.
I got more and more discouraged, because one by one, the first 8 I talked to didn’t want to be involved. They said: yes, women are beaten here all the time, and raped. We hear them screaming and there is no one to help them. Sometimes they come to us, but we don’t want them to. If we don’t know them, we turn them away. It’s too dangerous to get involved because their husband might be one of the “vagabonds”. Little by little, we found women who were not afraid and wanted to help. They had incredible spirits and guts and life to contribute.
They mostly didn’t know each other, but we invited them to training. We held several days of reflective training on peer counseling and basic community network building related to violence against women. Yesterday was the last day of formal training, so today I went back to check out how they were thinking about things now and what they had learned. They did role plays to show how good they’ve become at listening and non-directive options giving.
Then we started to chat. They started to sing a song they’d learned from other women in training, and we got up to dance. People’s capacity for spontaneous joy in places that don’t make it seem possible is astounding to me. Other women looked and laughed and came out of their tents to see what the joy was about. Then the women wanted to show us their homes, and we marched through the part of the camp that so many had considered to be too dangerous to help survivors in.
Big, tough guys stood among children and families, looking on as these 10 incredible women marched through their neighborhood like they finally owned the place. We met the families of the participants, and we danced together. And here is the miracle that keeps me going: seeing the joy of those women who are unafraid to be joyful, other women started smiling.
THAT is what I get to do for a living. How lucky am I?
March 22, 2010 - Port au Prince, Ayiti
Yesterday and today I am in Port au Prince, doing an assessment for a short training with long term follow up for the emergency organization where I worked in West Africa, now in Haiti.
I arrive in Cham Mas, the displaced camp outside of the collapsed presidential palace my first day in Port au Prince. I weave through the rows of families, many sitting outside their tents to escape the heat, only to find more heat. I am led by one of the Coordinators of KOFAVIV, a group that has long worked in neighborhoods around the area, as survivors of sexual violence who want to help other survivors. After hearing so many stories in another camp about fear of getting involved with survivors of violence against women because of possible retribution from perpetrators, I am impressed when they tell me all they do to support survivors. I ask what inspires them to keep doing their work, even when there is no money and it is sometimes dangerous.
One of the women says: "If our ancestors had been too afraid to stand up against slavery, we would be in a very different position now. But they were not afraid to stand up, and we are benefiting from that today. So we as women decided to put ourselves together and stand up, too, so that maybe someday our daughters and granddaughters will not have to be afraid."
We have to leave the meeting quickly, because Clinton and Bush want to visit the camp--the traffic is overwhelming and a protest is brewing. But after some tricky, backward driving by a brilliant man, we're out of traffic in no time.
I arrive in Cham Mas, the displaced camp outside of the collapsed presidential palace my first day in Port au Prince. I weave through the rows of families, many sitting outside their tents to escape the heat, only to find more heat. I am led by one of the Coordinators of KOFAVIV, a group that has long worked in neighborhoods around the area, as survivors of sexual violence who want to help other survivors. After hearing so many stories in another camp about fear of getting involved with survivors of violence against women because of possible retribution from perpetrators, I am impressed when they tell me all they do to support survivors. I ask what inspires them to keep doing their work, even when there is no money and it is sometimes dangerous.
One of the women says: "If our ancestors had been too afraid to stand up against slavery, we would be in a very different position now. But they were not afraid to stand up, and we are benefiting from that today. So we as women decided to put ourselves together and stand up, too, so that maybe someday our daughters and granddaughters will not have to be afraid."
We have to leave the meeting quickly, because Clinton and Bush want to visit the camp--the traffic is overwhelming and a protest is brewing. But after some tricky, backward driving by a brilliant man, we're out of traffic in no time.
March 20, 2010 - Jacmel, Haiti (Ayiti)
Ocean light fills the marketplace and makes the white stone look like it is lit from within. The market women are clearly lit from within, too, with gold hoop earrings and sassy banter and swirls of colors. A man walks past and starts an animated discussion about the lottery and who will win and who will lose. Or at least I think that is what it is about. At this point, I only understand some of the words—but the spirit is somehow easier to enter into, if not comprehend. The white stones have life here, just as the smiles do. Spirit is everywhere.
Everyone grows up sometime, incorporating a new, chosen family into the tapestry of the family (and friends) they came from. One week with a family here--and I am home.
Everyone grows up sometime, incorporating a new, chosen family into the tapestry of the family (and friends) they came from. One week with a family here--and I am home.
March 3, 2010 - Iowa
Just a note--it's not a deliberate omission. I haven't figured out yet how to write about home and family--the stream of people who are so available and fun and ready for a good laugh.
Sitting around a table with family tonight and celebrating my Grandma's 90th year of gracing this planet was irreplaceable.
Sitting around a table with family tonight and celebrating my Grandma's 90th year of gracing this planet was irreplaceable.
February 22, 2010 - Zen Center, Vermont
Back in Vermont.
Beloved monk from Japan, quoted somewhat imprecisely:
"May peace prevail on earth. I cannot give what I don't have. Maybe a person is in front of me and what they really need is a piece of chocolate cake. But I cannot give them chocolate cake if I don't have any. No matter how much they need it or how much I want to give it, I cannot give what I don't have. We are here so peace may prevail on earth . . .
"I meditate because it is like we are all in the desert. Everyone is thirsty but I am thirsty too. There is a spring, with a trickle of water only, but I know if I keep digging enough, I will get more water. I know that--maybe not today or tomorrow, but someday--I will reach a huge reservoir of water that has no end. So every day I get a small spring of happy, and I dig, dig, dig, thinking--ohh! Maybe today I can find more happy! Oh! More happy! Dig, dig, dig--make more happy!"
Beloved monk from Japan, quoted somewhat imprecisely:
"May peace prevail on earth. I cannot give what I don't have. Maybe a person is in front of me and what they really need is a piece of chocolate cake. But I cannot give them chocolate cake if I don't have any. No matter how much they need it or how much I want to give it, I cannot give what I don't have. We are here so peace may prevail on earth . . .
"I meditate because it is like we are all in the desert. Everyone is thirsty but I am thirsty too. There is a spring, with a trickle of water only, but I know if I keep digging enough, I will get more water. I know that--maybe not today or tomorrow, but someday--I will reach a huge reservoir of water that has no end. So every day I get a small spring of happy, and I dig, dig, dig, thinking--ohh! Maybe today I can find more happy! Oh! More happy! Dig, dig, dig--make more happy!"
February 5, 2010 - Zen Center, Pennsylvania
The bath fills, hot
Snow falls through Zen windowpanes
onto white birch, dark pine
the floor is heated
the paint spring green.
The mind is calm.
The heart, meanwhile, beats Ayiti, Ayiti, Ayiti.
No struggle, just togetherness.
Snow falls through Zen windowpanes
onto white birch, dark pine
the floor is heated
the paint spring green.
The mind is calm.
The heart, meanwhile, beats Ayiti, Ayiti, Ayiti.
No struggle, just togetherness.
January 28th, 2010 - Zen temple, Pennsylvania
The day J.D. Salinger died I spent 7 hours polishing candlesticks in a Zen temple.
I found out a day later,
tonight,
sitting at a wooden table in the winter corner of the temple library,
having just copied down my lineage,
carefully,
trying to memorize by lamplight.
I can think of no more fitting memorial.
"All we do our whole lives is go from one little piece of holy ground to the next." -J.D.S.
I found out a day later,
tonight,
sitting at a wooden table in the winter corner of the temple library,
having just copied down my lineage,
carefully,
trying to memorize by lamplight.
I can think of no more fitting memorial.
"All we do our whole lives is go from one little piece of holy ground to the next." -J.D.S.
January 26th, 2010 - Zen Temple, Pennsylvania
I feel peace after a long day.
This morning after meditation at an art gallery, we went to visit a man about my age in the hospital, dying of cancer. Mike.
His family was taking him off life support today. He is, as they say, survived by his parents, wife and 1 1/2 year old baby. Sensei of the Plains was awesome. She held his hand and did a guided meditation with him. Though he can't talk, he calmed down visibly when she said that he could welcome all the fear and anxiety he has, just sit with it, and welcome it as a sign of love and caring for his family, friends and life. Through welcoming it and sitting with it, he could find peace.
His big, Midwestern-feeling dad sat on the other side of him and held his other hand and cried. Sensei filled a space she knew they needed. It was beautiful.
The rest of the afternoon, I sat with my own anxiety about Haiti--about not knowing or doing enough--wishing I was more, that I was better able to help. Zen and the art of going to Haiti, to home. On CNN they say the U.S. is legislating ways to make adopting Haitian children easier.
A mixed bag, that--but here it is, a step on my path.
May I do it well, sitting with the anxiety and fear as well as a brave man I barely had the pleasure to meet.
This morning after meditation at an art gallery, we went to visit a man about my age in the hospital, dying of cancer. Mike.
His family was taking him off life support today. He is, as they say, survived by his parents, wife and 1 1/2 year old baby. Sensei of the Plains was awesome. She held his hand and did a guided meditation with him. Though he can't talk, he calmed down visibly when she said that he could welcome all the fear and anxiety he has, just sit with it, and welcome it as a sign of love and caring for his family, friends and life. Through welcoming it and sitting with it, he could find peace.
His big, Midwestern-feeling dad sat on the other side of him and held his other hand and cried. Sensei filled a space she knew they needed. It was beautiful.
The rest of the afternoon, I sat with my own anxiety about Haiti--about not knowing or doing enough--wishing I was more, that I was better able to help. Zen and the art of going to Haiti, to home. On CNN they say the U.S. is legislating ways to make adopting Haitian children easier.
A mixed bag, that--but here it is, a step on my path.
May I do it well, sitting with the anxiety and fear as well as a brave man I barely had the pleasure to meet.
January 24th, 2010 - Zen Temple, Pennsylvania
"Sometimes if we don't do anything, we help more than if we do a lot. We call that non-action. It is like a calm person on a small boat in a storm." - Thich Nhat Hanh
To send peace, I must be peace.
---
Running down hills and gullies in Pennsylvania,
with springs, rusts and browns, and pine
behind a Zen priest of the plains and her very happy dog.
---
Yesterday, Sensei of the Plains said:
"I am Haiti. Would I starve my finger? Of course not--it doesn't even make sense."
Interdependency.
To send peace, I must be peace.
---
Running down hills and gullies in Pennsylvania,
with springs, rusts and browns, and pine
behind a Zen priest of the plains and her very happy dog.
---
Yesterday, Sensei of the Plains said:
"I am Haiti. Would I starve my finger? Of course not--it doesn't even make sense."
Interdependency.
January 21st, 2010 - Zen Temple, Vermont
Today I learned to chant my lineage, teacher to student, all the way back to Buddha.
Wow.
No pressure or anything.
Wow.
No pressure or anything.
January 20th, 2010 - Zen Temple, Vermont
My alarm didn't go off and Sensei had food poisoning in the night. When I didn't appear at my usual Ungodly Hour, she dragged herself out to my cabin to be sure I wasn't dead.
I only had a touch of what hit her fast and terribly, making its mark and moving along. She said, laughing, that she passed out in the bathroom, thought she was going to die, and wrote me a note saying "Don't eat the sprouts!"
Glad to know what her parting message of wisdom would be to me. Perfectly Zen.
As my stomach gurgled and threatened all day, my body became tired and I struggled to meditate. Then I remembered what she said about being buried. Stop struggling and remember how to get to the center. Know how to get there from wherever you are.
She says I need a mantra or some reminder, so if death or pain comes quickly I can think of that rather than "oh, shit!"
I practiced quieting my own struggle tonight, sitting through a lot of pain and exhaution and sickness. It's the best possible practice. Exactly why I am here.
Tomorrow I try again.
I only had a touch of what hit her fast and terribly, making its mark and moving along. She said, laughing, that she passed out in the bathroom, thought she was going to die, and wrote me a note saying "Don't eat the sprouts!"
Glad to know what her parting message of wisdom would be to me. Perfectly Zen.
As my stomach gurgled and threatened all day, my body became tired and I struggled to meditate. Then I remembered what she said about being buried. Stop struggling and remember how to get to the center. Know how to get there from wherever you are.
She says I need a mantra or some reminder, so if death or pain comes quickly I can think of that rather than "oh, shit!"
I practiced quieting my own struggle tonight, sitting through a lot of pain and exhaution and sickness. It's the best possible practice. Exactly why I am here.
Tomorrow I try again.
January 19th, 2010 - Zen Temple, Vermont
I decided, fully and completely, to stay. I will be more ready for Haiti in March.
I answered emails today, rethought short and long-term partnerships in Haiti, and my center didn't become muddled.
I stopped struggling in meditation, in moments. The pain remained but I sat in peace. Sensei said that had been her prayer for Haiti. She buried herself alive and sat, and sent peace. Stopped struggling.
I answered emails today, rethought short and long-term partnerships in Haiti, and my center didn't become muddled.
I stopped struggling in meditation, in moments. The pain remained but I sat in peace. Sensei said that had been her prayer for Haiti. She buried herself alive and sat, and sent peace. Stopped struggling.
January 18th, 2010 - Zen Temple, Vermont
I now understand why they put monasteries in the middle of nowhere. Half of us would make a run for it if there were anywhere else to go.
---
Sensei asks me to write a letter to my formal Zen teacher. What to write to an older Japanese man who speaks in cryptic riddles and who I don't understand in the least but would trust with my life? Sensei is out, so I spend a few minutes of rebellion thinking of highly inappropriate ways to begin the letter . . .
"Yo Sensei--what up, dawg?"
After days of staring at a wall, it seemed like the funniest thing on earth. Almost peed my pants laughing.
The rest of the afternoon, I folded complex origami envelopes to hold a special New Year's formal greeting for my teacher. Confusing, but after the initial bout of swearing, ridiculously happy-making! the key is to keep in mind how he will feel when he gets it, and now to care if the first thing he feels is amused at how bad Americans are at precision.
---
108 bows and very, very sleepy.
suddenly with knees of an old lady.
in the monastery they do 1,000 a day.
crap.
---
Sensei asks me to write a letter to my formal Zen teacher. What to write to an older Japanese man who speaks in cryptic riddles and who I don't understand in the least but would trust with my life? Sensei is out, so I spend a few minutes of rebellion thinking of highly inappropriate ways to begin the letter . . .
"Yo Sensei--what up, dawg?"
After days of staring at a wall, it seemed like the funniest thing on earth. Almost peed my pants laughing.
The rest of the afternoon, I folded complex origami envelopes to hold a special New Year's formal greeting for my teacher. Confusing, but after the initial bout of swearing, ridiculously happy-making! the key is to keep in mind how he will feel when he gets it, and now to care if the first thing he feels is amused at how bad Americans are at precision.
---
108 bows and very, very sleepy.
suddenly with knees of an old lady.
in the monastery they do 1,000 a day.
crap.
January 17th, 2010 - Zen Temple, Vermont
Day of meditation with 12 people. Lovely to share the day that way.
Sensei gave a talk on Haiti and the cause of suffering. Over carrot juice and boiled tofu that tasted like the best stuff on earth, she explained.
Haiti is on everyone's mind. We must address it, and dedicate the day's sitting to Haiti. She encouraged donations, and a re-examination of the root cause.
It was not an earthquake. If people's houses had been properly built, non right on top of one another . . . And why were all those people in the capitol? (Or on the island in the first place, I add.)
Systems of greed. A good conversation over tea after the day's sit, between the 12 of us. The conversation again encircled Haiti, our privilege, our way of taking things for granted. They talked again of donating. I said something about remembering not to get too "oh, those poor Haitians" about it all.
I said it, I hope, more kindly than it is written here.
Just as the systems of greed bound us up together, my liberation is bound up with Haiti's. I need the community connectedness, the spontaneous expressions of joy. Even this week, I am relying on an African-Haitian belief that my sending of energy can be felt by a man holding a gun and taking advantage of the chaos and the fear.
Brother, put it down and use your strength to rebuild your country. As one of the lovely, older women today said: "All anyone ever needs to feel is that they are whole, and ok just as they are." Brother, you are loved. Stand up to your friends and put down the gun. Look around you.
As Sensei said, the best way to help is to simply make yourself available. People will draw out what they need. Haiti is one symbol. There is suffering (and, I add, liberation) everywhere.
Sensei gave me the temple's 2010 dedication card. The Japanese characters: Open, Liberation, a symbol for a man, a symbol for a woman. She said today she learned why. So did I.
Sensei gave a talk on Haiti and the cause of suffering. Over carrot juice and boiled tofu that tasted like the best stuff on earth, she explained.
Haiti is on everyone's mind. We must address it, and dedicate the day's sitting to Haiti. She encouraged donations, and a re-examination of the root cause.
It was not an earthquake. If people's houses had been properly built, non right on top of one another . . . And why were all those people in the capitol? (Or on the island in the first place, I add.)
Systems of greed. A good conversation over tea after the day's sit, between the 12 of us. The conversation again encircled Haiti, our privilege, our way of taking things for granted. They talked again of donating. I said something about remembering not to get too "oh, those poor Haitians" about it all.
I said it, I hope, more kindly than it is written here.
Just as the systems of greed bound us up together, my liberation is bound up with Haiti's. I need the community connectedness, the spontaneous expressions of joy. Even this week, I am relying on an African-Haitian belief that my sending of energy can be felt by a man holding a gun and taking advantage of the chaos and the fear.
Brother, put it down and use your strength to rebuild your country. As one of the lovely, older women today said: "All anyone ever needs to feel is that they are whole, and ok just as they are." Brother, you are loved. Stand up to your friends and put down the gun. Look around you.
As Sensei said, the best way to help is to simply make yourself available. People will draw out what they need. Haiti is one symbol. There is suffering (and, I add, liberation) everywhere.
Sensei gave me the temple's 2010 dedication card. The Japanese characters: Open, Liberation, a symbol for a man, a symbol for a woman. She said today she learned why. So did I.
January 16th, 2010 - Zen Temple, Vermont
No contact with the outside world today.
Just sitting, cleaning, eating, a walk in circles looking at trees, and a few long talks with Sensei.
Tonight, a sink full of Zen dishes put on the wooden counter, well washed.
My head is calm. My body pleasantly tired with a little bit of good pain.
Transfixed by how steam looks as it rises from my cup of hot water.
Just sitting, cleaning, eating, a walk in circles looking at trees, and a few long talks with Sensei.
Tonight, a sink full of Zen dishes put on the wooden counter, well washed.
My head is calm. My body pleasantly tired with a little bit of good pain.
Transfixed by how steam looks as it rises from my cup of hot water.
January 15th, 2010 - Zen Temple, Vermont
Meeting Sensei's mother, 95 and delighted by bunnies.
Shoveling snow off the roof of the wood shed.
Stacking wood.
A long walk in the woods by myself, and with every step a message of peace for a child in Haiti. It's ok, baby. Walk, find food, find water. Don't run until you see water--save your energy. Walk. You can do it. You are loved.
Or for my future brothers, my love, the men I will meet and those I will not: More strength to you, brothers. Use the anger. Find your superhuman strength and lift something heavy and find the ones still buried.
Or to the women, already connected to each other and singing: May I sing with foreign words til you teach me your songs?
Every step a prayer.
---
I got a near job offer with the UN in Haiti today--one I didn't apply for. My first thought was to jump on the next plane.
Sensei was stern. It would have been funny if it didn't hit me so hard. The sixty something year old petite Buddhist priest all but blocked the door. "Sit down!" she said. "Meditate. Think this through."
Shoveling snow off the roof of the wood shed.
Stacking wood.
A long walk in the woods by myself, and with every step a message of peace for a child in Haiti. It's ok, baby. Walk, find food, find water. Don't run until you see water--save your energy. Walk. You can do it. You are loved.
Or for my future brothers, my love, the men I will meet and those I will not: More strength to you, brothers. Use the anger. Find your superhuman strength and lift something heavy and find the ones still buried.
Or to the women, already connected to each other and singing: May I sing with foreign words til you teach me your songs?
Every step a prayer.
---
I got a near job offer with the UN in Haiti today--one I didn't apply for. My first thought was to jump on the next plane.
Sensei was stern. It would have been funny if it didn't hit me so hard. The sixty something year old petite Buddhist priest all but blocked the door. "Sit down!" she said. "Meditate. Think this through."
January 14th, 2010 - Zen Temple, Vermont
The place is cozy and made of wood, in the middle of a forest.
The priest is lovely and kind.
I use an outhouse in the snow at night and wood burning stoves.
We ate the lunch mom and dad packed for me for dinner and loved every bite.
Haiti is in ruins, and she (Sensei) knows I want to do something. I told her my long-standing plan to go there directly after the retreat, in April. Then I told her more about my relationship with Haiti than I've told most people; it's called me for a long time. She asked if I believe someone can send peace through pure meditation, making it easier for others half a world away.
I said I don't know. I know meditation helps me to balance, and without balance I have made muddles of my attempts to help in the past. At the same time, I said, sometimes people need straight up support, not metaphysical peaceful feelings. Strangely, this is almost what she'd said earlier in the day.
She had said sometimes people need crisis support, sometimes shifting of power and discussion of justice, and sometimes a peacefulness internally. Responding with infinite patience and internal peace isn't always what the doctor ordered.
She cuts to the heart of it, now at dinner, over dad's fudge, as snow falls gently outside the wooden windows.
She says, now I am here. She asked me to try to cultivate the mindset that pure meditation and prayer can change things for people.
She talked about studies where groups of meditators had come into violent places and changed the statistics. She knows I am willing to leave early if there is something concrete I can do. In the interim, while I am here, I should just sit. Sit and cultivate the mindset that the meditation is not for me. It is purely for, as she said, that kid sitting in the parking lot next to his dead mother, with nowhere to go.
Let that kid feel love and peace, enough to find a way to stand up. And, at the beginning and ending of each meditation session, I should beg with all my soul for it to work.
God bless her, that isn't very textbook Buddhist, but I guess that's why I love Buddhists--that was the only thing in that moment that could have made any sense to me. This woman can teach me.
So I turn out the light, look up at the stars through branches of winter trees, and I beg.
The priest is lovely and kind.
I use an outhouse in the snow at night and wood burning stoves.
We ate the lunch mom and dad packed for me for dinner and loved every bite.
Haiti is in ruins, and she (Sensei) knows I want to do something. I told her my long-standing plan to go there directly after the retreat, in April. Then I told her more about my relationship with Haiti than I've told most people; it's called me for a long time. She asked if I believe someone can send peace through pure meditation, making it easier for others half a world away.
I said I don't know. I know meditation helps me to balance, and without balance I have made muddles of my attempts to help in the past. At the same time, I said, sometimes people need straight up support, not metaphysical peaceful feelings. Strangely, this is almost what she'd said earlier in the day.
She had said sometimes people need crisis support, sometimes shifting of power and discussion of justice, and sometimes a peacefulness internally. Responding with infinite patience and internal peace isn't always what the doctor ordered.
She cuts to the heart of it, now at dinner, over dad's fudge, as snow falls gently outside the wooden windows.
She says, now I am here. She asked me to try to cultivate the mindset that pure meditation and prayer can change things for people.
She talked about studies where groups of meditators had come into violent places and changed the statistics. She knows I am willing to leave early if there is something concrete I can do. In the interim, while I am here, I should just sit. Sit and cultivate the mindset that the meditation is not for me. It is purely for, as she said, that kid sitting in the parking lot next to his dead mother, with nowhere to go.
Let that kid feel love and peace, enough to find a way to stand up. And, at the beginning and ending of each meditation session, I should beg with all my soul for it to work.
God bless her, that isn't very textbook Buddhist, but I guess that's why I love Buddhists--that was the only thing in that moment that could have made any sense to me. This woman can teach me.
So I turn out the light, look up at the stars through branches of winter trees, and I beg.
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