Present moment, hummingbird moment

Yesterday I went outside to cut some basil to put with the tomatoes I was bringing to an elderly friend who had a bad fall a few days ago. At the moment I cut it the smell of freshest basil bloomed, just as the sun came out, and I thought, Life is perfect.  You might think that at my age, having practiced Zen for quite a few years, I had thought that before, but I don't think I had. Life is perfect. The sickbed, taxes, the weather. Everything.

As I say, the sun came out. And I may have been softened by some lovely things that have been happening around here. We live in a neighborhood only ten minutes from downtown Columbus, but on a ravine with woods in our back yard.

Two days ago I walked into the living room, and there outside the big window lay two young whitetail deer, munching. Both were bucks with antlers at this stage. We've had deer before, up to five once, but only one buck. Usually it is does and their young.

I moved out of the room. When I looked again a few minutes later, one had left. The other saw me again and lazily got up and left, too. I thought how lucky we are that we don't cultivate that backyard into a shade garden, which it once was. It's fine for the deer to lie on the plants and eat what they like.

Later that day I was sitting with a friend at the kitchen table when motion outside the window caught my eye, and there was a hummingbird drinking from the red petunias in the hanging basket. It darted from blossom to blossom to blossom, then gone. Present moment, hummingbird moment.

As if all that isn't enough, Saturday morning I saw a baby bunny on the front porch, a bunny small enough to hold in the palm of one hand. I just don't know anything more appealing. He fled when he saw me there.

Each sighting ruptured for a moment my usual reality, that habit of going-somewhere, doing-something, the way nature in the city does. I am aided in stopping by Zen practice, of course. I have been reading the remarkable blog of Tracy and Koun Franz, One Continuous Mistake. On a parenting blog, Mothering in the Middle, she talks about the Japanese worldview in contrast to our own carpe diem.  Ichi-go ichi-e means "one time, one meeting." Or, your only chance, right here. 

Our backyard in spring

What to do in a time of the breaking of nations

I know I am not the only person avoiding the evening news these days.  The sight of row upon row of bodies, some very small, is just too heartbreaking.  The thought of poison gas is appalling.  On this subject, I just read a talk by James Ford, who is both a Unitarian Minister and an important American Zen Master, that I found moving and thoughtful.  Here is a quote I pulled out to keep in my mind:

Our issue, the real deal for us here in this community, is how to act in a sacred manner in this mess of relationships that are our lives. 

I don't know what to do about war or the polarization of political parties in this country. I vote. I didn't expect my elected representatives to be involved in power plays and war games. I think a lot of us are disheartened by it, and more frightened by the violence unleashed in the world in these times.

But James' words lead me to recall my part in things, to practice the Three Pure Precepts of a Zen student.  They are to avoid doing harm, to act in ways that are beneficial, and to help free all beings from suffering.  I find that when I keep these in mind, I have plenty of work to do.  To be truthful, the first one alone is very demanding.  To avoid doing harm, as Joan Halifax has pointed out, means to avoid injuring -
oneself,
others,
animals,
plants,
the Earth,
the waters,
and
the air.

"Earth" - that's her capital letter.  Make of it what you will.

You can read the rest of James's talk here.
May all beings be well, happy, and peaceful.
~~~~~~
graphic by Susan Piver

Bad Habits and Dangerous Undandering

Of course, nobody decides to start a meditation practice without a reason, but it usually isn't compelling enough to keep us going.  It takes a lot of effort and self-discipline.  And we run into difficulties that are the standard and predictable landscape of a spiritual quest . . .

Why do I think this is out west? Maybe it's the bullet holes.

but that defeat people who don't have solid relationships with a real teacher and sitting group.

Even when teachers are available, records show that most people drop away from practice when it starts to get difficult or boring, and it does both.  I only mean to say, if you're not committed to a practice, you've got a lot of company.  On the other hand, the day does come when you wish you'd been practicing all these years. 

On still another hand, so to speak, practice does not make perfect.  You may practice for years and years and still find yourself shaking your head at some mindless moment.  There are big ones, like the time not long ago when I fell off a step stool and got a concussion and a compression fracture in my spine.  Then there are the little ones.  You can make an endless stream of those without trying.  I made two little ones so far today, and it's just noon.

1.  I injured my lower back and set up my sciatica giving the cat her daily dander treatment.

2.  Thinking morosely how I injured my lower back, I went to take a Tylenol from my pillcase, but instead took my 2:00 pm immune-suppressants two hours early, which they really caution against. 

Allow me to explain.

What do you mean, your table?

When I ramped up my own practice a couple of months ago, I did become more aware.  One day, petting Tashi, I  realized that I was deathly allergic to her.  Maybe her soft blue-gray coat, with its fine, tiny undercoat, is a special offender in this regard.  Tashi is a shelter cat, but much the type of the Russian Blue (see left).  The darn immune-suppressants have let my allergies go wild.  So it's been deep cleaning around here, and also spraying the carpet with special pet-allergy stuff, and wiping down the poor cat every day with other stuff that controls her dander, and does help.

This morning I had experimentally driven my little car around the block, as the doctor advised, and was pleased that it didn't hurt my back.  Maybe I felt big and strong as a result, because then I did the undandering of Tashi alone.  This means wiping down pretty much all her surface with a paper towel moistened with the stuff.  She does not like this, though she does not hate it, so she tried to squirm  away, but I held her and finished the job.  When I straightened up, uh-oh.  Pain across the lower back, and that sciatica in the right leg.  Just another case of live and learn.

And in that interesting way things do, one mistake led to another.  I always take my Rapamune when I open the noon pillcase, which is usually at 2:00, after my phone alarm reminds me.  I didn't mean to take it at noon, but did, by habit.  Habit is sometimes my friend (I scrape the catbox every night) and sometimes my enemy.  Awareness is the opposite of habit, now that I think about it.  But aware or not, sometimes you misjudge things, and there goes your back.

It pleased me no end to learn a while back that Zen has a term for living your life as a continuous series of mistakes.  (You can read a little about it here.)  Shoshaku jushaku.  Actually, that will happen unless you're in a very tidy rut.  When I saw that term I thought, If I ever get to go through the process whereby you are given a Buddhist name, this might well be it.