Live and Learn!

I have just begun reading "Gems of Wisdom from the Seventh Dalai Lama," translation and commentary by Glenn H. Mullin.  I was drawn to this book by this sentence in the forward, which was quoted in the book catalogue: "All of the vast and profound teachings of the Buddha, as well as of all earlier Buddhist masters of India and Tibet, are elucidated through similes and metaphors that employ such earthy images as smelly farts, body odor, wild horses, slimy monsters, mindless lunatics and so forth." How could anyone possibly resist such a book?

So far, I have not been disappointed. I have learned that there are six root delusions or afflicted emotions: anger, attachment, instinctual behavior, arrogance, jealousy, and complacence. I was very pleased when I read this list, because so far, I seem to be immune to one of these root delusions, jealousy. I have a bit of work to do to root out the other five delusions, however. Complacency may prove to be especially difficult to root out though, now that I have discovered that I am immune to one of the other five delusions.

The introduction to the book includes very short biographies of the first seven Dalai Lamas, and I decided to search for Buddha images from the monasteries that were founded by some of these early Dalai Lamas (the current Dalai Lama is the Fourteenth). When I looked up the monastery at Litang, which was established by the Third Dalai Lama in the mid-sixteenth century, I was astonished to find photos of the giant Buddha carved out of a mountain, which, over the course of this year of doing papercuts of the Buddha, I have already done several times. This 1,300 year old Buddha is 71 meters tall, and is by far the biggest in the world, which makes it very very famous and very frequently photographed, yet I did not recognize the name "Litang." There is a very good reason for this. This mountain of a Buddha, according to the official Chinese map, sits in western Sichuan Provence, in a town called "Leshan," but according to the Tibetans who have always lived there, they live in the small town of Litang in Kham Provence, Tibet.

Over the past year, I have seen hundreds of photos of this Buddha, all of them labeled, "Leshan, China."  It was not until I looked specifically for "Litang," that I learned that "Leshan" is actually part of occupied Tibet, and a particularly troublesome part of Tibet, at that. The Tibetan citizens of Litang have put up particularly strong resistance to the Chinese occupation of their land. In 1956, the Chinese People's Liberation Army bombed the Litang Monastery, destroying it, and there was an anti-Chinese riot at the horse racing festival in 2007. It is illegal to possess pictures of the Dalai Lama in Litang, and there is a strong Chinese police and military presence in the town.

Be skeptical of official governmental and/or industrial accounts. Approach all questions from every imaginable direction, and you may find that the object of your inquiry becomes virtually unrecognizable from your new vantage point.

Winning Entry from Daphne Woll Shapiro, Destiny vs Free Will

Destiny vs Free Will

“Your destiny could arrive sooner than you think!” (Source: Anita, the Online Psychic Facebook Application)

My destiny has already arrived.

It came in the form of an all-you-can-eat Pig Feed at the local Portuguese Immigrant Society Social Hall during which I enthusiastically and singlehandedly consumed an obscenely overflowing plate of oink prepared from multiple (and in some cases, unspeakable) pig parts.   I did it one sitting, in the space of less than 30 minutes.  I would have totally gone for seconds, but the buffet line was too long. You’re not looking at a football player here, by the way.  I am 53 years old and weigh 135 pounds.  I tend towards vegetarianism.

That said, if I were to deny the hand of destiny, there would be no other explanation for my behavior at the Pig Feed other than free will. In that case, I have no choice but to take full responsibility for the events of Saturday evening, January 23^rd, 2010, starting from the moment I got dressed, withdrew a $20 bill from ATM machine, drove to the Immigrant Society Social Hall and then turned that same $20 bill over to the nice Portuguese lady at the ticket table.

Wait a darn minute here.  No way.  Never.  I’m not that type of person. The only possible reason for what went down at the Portuguese Pig Feed is the intervention of The Master Architect.  I was following His Plan for me down to the last fried pork rind, Preacher.

The baffling part of this entire scenario is that I am Jewish and we are forbidden to eat pork – either by free will or divine design and I know it.  We also don’t have Preachers.  

But I digress.

The extrapolations to this are fascinating and possibly life-altering.  Is the consumption of three cake donuts in quick succession (two with chocolate, one with red and blue sprinkles on a white frosting base) ultimately a guilt free experience after all? What if it was already preordained by larger forces that I should find myself last Tuesday after work in front of the day old bakery shelf at the local supermarket?  Was the fact that I spent Saturday in bed reading back issues of the National Enquirer instead of going to the gym my divine destiny?  More importantly is my tendency towards shameless flirting simply a manifestation of cosmic forces beyond my control?  And believe me, I’m talking about really SHAMELESS flirting. 

I believe it is God’s Plan.  All of it and more. You believe so, too.  After all, what other explanation is there for perfectly rational people such as ourselves going off the rails with such predictable frequency? 

Only destiny explains it.  Problem solved.  Me?  I was just following orders, Sergeant. 

So go ahead and have yourself another pork knuckle or a cake donut or a wild affair. Whatever.  Go for it. Don’t bother fighting the universe.  It will only bite you back.

Daphne Woll Shapiro

Winning Entry from Daphne Woll Shapiro, Menopause

Menopause

My partner just told me that he read a really good book on menopause and suggested that I read it too. He thought it might be helpful.  I don’t understand why he felt that was necessary, after all, DO I LOOK LIKE I HAVE A PROBLEM? 

I didn’t think so. 

The truth of the matter is that my menopause was actually done and over with years before I met him.   What he thinks is a temporary hormonally induced aberration is actually the real me.  Oh well.  Full disclosure is for amateurs and people who appear on the Oprah show. That’s what I say.

And WHAT’S WRONG WITH OCCASIONALLY YELLING ANYWAY?  It sets up a vibration in the body which purifies and encourages healing. 

Wait a minute.  Never mind.  I was confusing yelling with Yoga chanting.  

But it was very sweet of him to care enough about me and our relationship to actually research the subject.  I will indeed go to the library and check the book out.  It will work perfectly as a giant coaster for my tea when I’m stretched out on the sofa bitching on the phone.

Daphne Woll Shapiro

Winning Post from Mark Kreitzer

Lullaby, Don’t You Cry 

Mark Kreitzer ©

At the end of another day,

Your weary thoughts all drift away

You take your leave from all your cares,

Happy dreams will greet you there,

So lullaby, don’t you cry

Let me close your weary eyes

And I’ll be there by and by

When you come back home

Happy thoughts await you now

You don’t need to worry how

As your ears shut out the crowd,

Lay your head upon the clouds

So lullaby, don’t you cry

Let me close your weary eyes

And I’ll be there by and by

When you come back home

http://files.me.com/markkreitzer/av88sz.mp3

Winning entry from Diane Hellekson

For Ellen Sandbeck’s “A Buddha a Day”

I am not a woman of faith.

As a Lutheran child, I went through the motions; as an adolescent, I tried to find Jesus; and as an adult I’ve wanted a spiritual home. But the trouble with faith is that, like love, it only comes unbidden.

I’ve had fiery street-corner preachers tell me I was going to burn, and once I was brought to tears when a friend and Jehovah’s Witness said he heard the devil speaking though me (I had just expressed my belief in social change via political process). But my worst personal encounter with religion was with a Buddhist who briefly loved me.

He had the motto “Live as though events are dreams” posted near his front door, and a “Don’t believe everything you think” bumper sticker. He felt that figuratively burning the past was one way toward inner peace, and he seemed incapable of anger. I would ask questions about his faith, and sometimes he’d answer them. But while he wore his Buddhism on his sleeve, he also kept it close to his chest, pulling it out only occasionally like a membership card to an exclusive club. It seemed to give him an identity, a way to differentiate himself from others, and from me.

The night he left me, on a bitter New Year’s Eve, 250 miles north of home, I had my head on his lap as I confessed some of my hopes and fears, and thoughts on resolving them in the coming year. Rather than listening like a lover, his response was to offer a series of prescriptions. With clinical condescension, he told me what I “should” do. Embrace and engage difficult people in my life rather than protect myself from what felt like harm. Practice a particular daylong meditation at my father’s grave to release him-- but only after I had done some unspecified long-term preparations.

I had told him before that I felt like an unenlightened grasshopper around his faith, something he chided me for. Yet here he was suggesting something similar: that I needed to be shown how to approach my own life.  Never mind that his religion was not supposed to be evangelical; his message that night was that I could “correct” my New Year’s resolutions by following his Buddhist path.

In the wake of that, and some cruelty that followed, several people assured me that his behavior was in no way Buddhist. Yet when I noted bits of Buddhism popping up in the months that followed—in a conversation, a posting, an article—I was wary. This man had been so sure of his faith, and his certainty left me feeling so very wrong. If that was how Buddhism worked, it frightened me. I didn’t want ever feel the way I felt that night, judged and quietly belittled for my lack of faith.

So what I love about all these Buddhas of Ellen’s is that they don’t preach or judge; they guide by the gentlest of examples. Their woozy, contented glances; their hands like calm flowers in their laps; their feet, deep-rooted redwoods. In some of these peculiarly concrete paper cutouts, the Buddha closes his eyes, but still sees from his palms, his nipples, his soles: his whole body understands the world, accepts it, loves it.

I doubt I will ever be a Buddhist, or a devotee of any religion. The closest I get to faith these days is in yoga class, when I find myself standing solidly on one leg, my other arcing skyward, a supple reed in conversation with my hand—a feat I manage only because I fix my gaze on a sliver of light slipping through the edge of the window shade at the back of the room. Or at the end of class when I’m spent, in savasana, my arms and legs heavy on the ground, yet floating like so much energy. 

In those moments, my soul is bigger than my body, and it glimmers like the light behind a silhouette of a Buddha.

Diane Hellekson

10 May 2010

Winning Post from Sophie Ardenghi, plus translation

Ellen découpe des bouddhas en papier qui me sonnent de la même force que leurs frères de pierre.

Leur présence est plus épaisse que la fine couche de papier sur laquelle ils se posent et leur regard d’éternité m’attire autant par leur grâce que par leur sérénité.

Ces figures dentelées semblent transcender leur support, qu’il vienne de la fibre légère du papier ou que ce soit une statue gigantesque pesant mille hommes. Les bouddhas d’Ellen s’affirment à moi et me regardent autant que je veux les regarder. Ils sont faits de trous et d’air mais ont le poids de la beauté qui parle à mon âme.

                                             Sophie Ardenghi

Ellen cuts up paper Buddhas who strike me with the same force as their brothers of stone.

Their presence is thicker than the thin layer of paper on which they rest and their regard of eternity entices me as much by their grace as by their serenity.

These jagged figures seem to transcend their medium, whether it comes from the light fiber of the paper or a gigantic statue the weight of a thousand men. Ellen’s Buddhas assert themselves to me and stare at me as much as I want to stare at them. They are made of holes and of air but have the weight of the beauty that speaks to my soul.

Translation by Ariadne Sandbeck

Winning entry from Sophie Ardenghi

Ellen découpe des bouddhas en papier qui me sonnent de la même force que leurs frères de pierre.

Leur présence est plus épaisse que la fine couche de papier sur laquelle ils se posent et leur regard d’éternité m’attire autant par leur grâce que par leur sérénité.

Ces figures dentelées semblent transcender leur support, qu’il vienne de la fibre légère du papier ou que ce soit une statue gigantesque pesant mille hommes. Les bouddhas d’Ellen s’affirment à moi et me regardent autant que je veux les regarder. Ils sont faits de trous et d’air mais ont le poids de la beauté qui parle à mon âme.

                                             Sophie Ardenghi