Prosocial Emotions

Feb10

In our gratitude group this evening, top two mentions went to Bad Bunny and the Walk for Peace monks. We didn’t even touch on the Olympics, but the games have certainly played into my sense of “prosocial emotions” the past few days. The most poignant moment for me so far came tonight watching Max Naumov in his Olympic debut in the men’s short figure skating program. After a beautiful routine he held up a photo of him as a toddler between his parents of his very first time on ice. His parents, Olympic skaters themselves, were killed when that Army helicopter crashed into a passenger plane over the Potomac River just nine days into the new regime. (Remember the ‘official’ spin on that?)

When I woke up a little grumpy about mouth pain, I quickly recalled that the monks were crossing into DC, pivoted to gratitude, and came downstairs to watch their livestream. They were greeted on the Virginia side of Chain Bridge with a bow from a DC police officer, and escorted across the bridge over the Potomac River by a line of bicycle cops in neon yellow vests.

The procession continued down the center line of Canal Road. Snowbanks edged each side, bare trees arched over from the C&O canal on their right side, and climbed the hill on their left. The road was closed to traffic so there were few spectators, and I imagine this must have incidentally supported the sacred nature of this crossing expressed by Bhikkhu Pannakara.

I was impressed by the slow-cycling cops’ ability to match the pace of the brisk-walking monks as they navigated into the city and made their way to American University. People appeared on sidewalks as the monks continued down the center of closed roads. I was grateful for the massive presence of peace officers surrounding the peace monks. A few nuns and monks fell in behind from the sidelines wearing fresh bright orange robes easily distinguished from the well-worn travelers’ robes. Greeted at AU by a diversity of clerics along a path strewn with flower petals, they settled in for a short rest and a public talk.

Then they resumed their walk through DC among, at last, crowds shouting their thanks.

At Washington National Cathedral thousands gathered out front where the monks were introduced by Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde. Bhikkhu Pannakara spoke for about half an hour to a rapt audience. The cathedral’s livestream caught it all.

After Secretary of State for DC Kimberly Bassett presented a proclamation from Mayor Muriel Bowser (“I vow to practice peace every day”), our monks and a hundred or more gathered clergy and faith leaders from all traditions went inside to talk about their commonalities: loving kindness, peace, and compassion. As they entered, the sweet camerawoman live-streaming for the monks walked through crowd cooing greetings and filming smiling faces, waves, and signs amplifying the monks’ message.

As sun streamed through the high stained glass windows of the cathedral and lit the vaulted ceiling in teal, pink and gold, flags from every state waved at the tops of arches. With music softly playing and my eyes and nose streaming, our intrepid monks took their seats in an arc on stage while pews filled with orange robes. The Dean of the Cathedral said it was one of the most beautiful sights he’d ever seen, and Bishop Budde welcomed all of “our interfaith friends and siblings of one human family.”

Questions were invited from the assembled, and the first was from a Muslim cleric: “How do we reconcile the belief that we must be at peace, with our duty to act in the name of justice?” Bhikkhu Pannakara invited Bhikkhu Bodhi up to answer the question and escorted him up the short stairs onto stage. “I’m 81 years old and I grew up in the Sixties… and now what are we facing? I have to say sadly it’s almost a reign of terror…

“We have to balance this inner peace with what I call a strong commitment to conscientious compassion: compassion inspired by a sense of conscience, a responsibility for the welfare of all our fellow citizens, all the residents of this country, and indeed a universal compassion for all human beings around this world, and—do we have Aloka here?—all sentient beings around this world.”

A representative of The United Tribes next asked, “What is your message for children in our next seven generations?” Bhikkhu Pannakara responded with the same message he’s been sharing along the way: we’re way too dependent on technology!

And then they were on their way again, walking down Embassy Row, and the livestream stopped. I was wrung out. I got a text from my dear friend who had been in the crowd outside the cathedral, with the message, “It could have been one of your Mindfulness classes! You should market all over DC because it was such a moving speech, breaking all barriers of religion, race, age, socio-economic background. I think DC people would sign up for classes if they knew about you!”

Bless your heart Doodles, I wish they would! But we have all had a crash course from one of the very best, an extraordinary young monk who had an idea one day and followed through with passionate dedication. In 108 days he’s done more for mindfulness than anyone I can think of. The culmination of their journey this week in DC is the antidote that so many of us needed after the year we’ve suffered. Bouyed these past few days by the monks on one coast exemplifying the path to peace, on the other coast by a young Puerto Rican pop star epitomizing joy as resistance, and in between by the creative, resilient solidarity of a huge community defending itself with love in Minneapolis, it was an easy week to practice gratitude.

All images today are photos or livestream screenshots I grabbed from the Walk for Peace USA Facebook page, or from the National Cathedral’s livestream on YouTube. My favorite: that courageous Bishop Budde loving on Aloka the Peace Dog. A close second: that resilient Venerable Maha Dom Phommasan who lost his leg in the accident near the beginning of the journey, followed by the sweet French monk with walking poles, Venerable Samma Maggo, both of whom returned for this sacred conclusion after leaving the walk earlier.

Walk for Peace

Feb9
Sandra shared this illustration that someone sent her, knowing I would appreciate it.

Today the monks walked along US Rt. 1 from Woodbridge, VA to Alexandria. I watched some of it live on Facebook, and wept most of the time. Just before they stopped for lunch they walked past the apartment complex where I lived while I was helping my mother die, and shortly after that past the Home where my parents lived. After lunch at a Buddhist temple I never knew existed (and may not have back then) they walked past the fenced and multi-gated Fort Belvoir where my father worked at one point, and where I’ve spent time occasionally through the years since my childhood. People lined the road for miles, offering flowers, fruit, prayers, and other symbols of heartfelt thanks. Amy chanced to drive near there and reported “Traffic is insane. Police everywhere blocking off roads. People are leaving their cars and walking to get close to them. It’s very festive!”

The tears I shed were tears of pure emotion, mostly joy. Tomorrow they walk through a very dense part of Northern Virginia from Alexandria to Arlington, normally perhaps a twenty minute drive. And on Tuesday, they cross the Potomac River into the belly of the beast. Their full schedule for DC is here, and includes an interfaith ceremony at Washington National Cathedral, followed by a Unity Walk along Embassy Row. I encourage everyone to watch live as much as possible of their walk into our nation’s troubled capital: This needs to be witnessed. I have some anxiety about the official welcome they’ll receive.

Wednesday morning they’ll walk to the Peace Monument (after my time?) and Capitol Hill. After lunch they’ll walk to the Lincoln Memorial for a peace gathering and concluding ceremony, and from 4:30–7:30 PM ET they’ll lead a global peace meditation which will be live-streamed on their Facebook page. You can be sure I’ll be tuned in for that. Thursday they’ll cross into Maryland, speak at the Maryland State Capitol, and leave early afternoon to return home to Fort Worth, TX. What an astonishing thing they have done!

In between watching the monks and spending the afternoon and evening with televised sports spectacles like a regular American, Wren and I did a little spring cleaning at the pond. I was very careful not to disturb the frog that Wren didn’t notice, while she enthusiastically sought to disturb as much as she could. I didn’t see any other signs of life besides the one frog, but she may have. I used the marvelous SunJoe hedge clippers to cut back some of the rushes and grasses, but this is a before picture. Then we rested up with the Super Bowl sandwiched between Olympics. I tuned into football largely for the commercials (which weren’t that great imho) and for the marvelous halftime show, but also enjoyed watching the Seahawks trounce the Patriots. Maybe because I haven’t watched a Super Bowl in years, maybe because Bad Bunny put on a spectacular and moving show, maybe because everyone at the Olympics seemed happy (until Lindsey Vonn crashed) I surrendered all my “should dos” and worries, whipped up some onion dip, and thoroughly enjoyed escaping for the whole day into the illusion that everything is just fine. Tomorrow, it’s back to work strenuously cultivating inner peace and saving democracy.

Honeybun Fail

Feb7

We’ve been savoring morning coffee in the sunroom and busy in the kitchen the past few days. Choosing to attend to what brings peace and not the things I can’t control. Though I did make some calls to or email my elected federal representatives each day making my preferences known: impeach Trump, fire Noem, defund ICE, release the full unredacted Epstein files immediately, etc… oh, and thanks for supporting public lands, because thankfully all three of them seem to be doing at least that for Colorado.

The week’s sourdough rose beautifully and turned out perfectly.

But the honeybuns failed spectacularly. I’d been craving those gooey childhood sweet rolls for awhile, and Amy’s been helping hunt for a good recipe, but I used the first one I stumbled on because I liked the idea of rolling the dough into a snake for each bun instead of rolling it flat and then into a log and slicing it. They looked like they might turn out ok as they rose.

But they did not turn out ok at all. They baked tight with a hard crust, the exact opposite in every way of what they should have done. I’m grateful that with mindfulness, I get less upset and less often about the little things, like a honeybun fail. It didn’t upset me at all, just surprised me, and so I made the best of it. It wasn’t worth making the glaze but I had some leftover frosting in the fridge, which melted into a glaze on top, and then I sliced the buns open and spread frosting inside to invent a brand new sandwichcakebun. They’ll work well enough for me for a few breakfasts.

I’d also made some meringue because I needed space in the freezer so I had to use up the mini-phyllo shells and the frozen lemon curd. Those turned out pretty well, but then I had a lot of leftover meringue so I folded in some mini-chocolate chips but by the time I could get those in the oven the meringue had softened too much to pipe well. Oh well. They still tasted good.

Inspired by Cousin Mel talking about vegetarian chili I made a big batch of that with a simple recipe I found online, but which I can’t locate again and it was just common sense anyway. Chopped up onion, carrot, celery, and bell pepper small, minced garlic, mixed with chili powder, cumin, oregano, salt and pepper…

… chopped up some frozen roasted green chilis (more space in the freezer! but not much!), threw in a can of chopped tomatoes and three cans of beans with some water and cooked it down a bit…

… added a can of sweet corn and cooked some more, then served it with sour cream and grated hard cheddar for a hearty dinner.

I’ll be eating chili for a few days and watching winter Olympics, taking a mental health break from the cares of the world, and spending some time reading, meditating, and spring cleaning a little bit in the garden before the next snowstorm later this week. Practicing with cognitive dissonance. Eagerly anticipating the arrival of the Walk for Peace monks in Washington DC in three days, where they’ve invited monastics of all traditions to join them for various talks and walks in our troubled nation’s capital. I’m holding love and curiosity gently balanced as I wait and see what happens. May all beings find peace in their hearts.

A Small Cremation

Feb2

I woke to a startling warning text from Amy. I didn’t doubt her but wanted to know more. Eew. It didn’t take more than a minute reading to decide what to do next. I don’t want to see its invariable change. So I gently lifted it off the stem…

Eew. Sticky! Where did she come from? Will winter kill any others that might have laid their cottony egg sacs outside? It says they can hatch 600-800 eggs in a few days in summer but take a couple months in winter. Thank goodness I didn’t wait to see what happened!

Eew. Very sticky!

I tried to lay it on a paper towel but it was so sticky I had to spread it to get it off the tool. I couldn’t see any eggs so I used the handy zoom feature on my pocket supercomputer.

I considered my options for disposal of these pests. Definitely not the compost! Maybe garbage? I don’t like to kill any being, but nor did I want to risk them surviving and spreading. I decided on a ceremonial cremation, so I folded up the paper towel and set it on top of the woodstove to wait for tonight’s fire.

Wren supervised. I set the shroud on the floor to start the fire, and once it was blazing I tossed in the deceased mother and her hundreds of eggs. Goodbye, cottony cushion scale! Thanks Amy!

It Will Invariably Change

Feb1

After a foot of snow last weekend, the week has been cold and sunny, keeping the ground snow-covered.

Thursday was a good day to bake. I was out of bread, and the sourdough starter was low and feeble. So I followed dear Amy’s lead and baked these one-hour sourdough discard rolls again.

This time I made half a batch, and tucked a little pepperoni and cheese inside. I’d have put a smear of tomato sauce in, too, except there was a little mold on top so that went to the compost. I’m grateful for the process of composting, so that I feel no waste-guilt when I let food go bad: It all goes back to the garden. Still, I try to not waste food.

I love working with dough. I’ve got so much to learn. I was happy with these rolls but will refine them the next time. The way I filled and folded them, all the goodies ended up in the top half but they’re still pretty good.

I brushed the tops with an egg wash and sprinkled them with marigold salt. I enjoyed a couple warm out of the pan the first day, sliced and toasted one the next day with extra cheese on the bottom half, and the third day toasted and buttered one, served it with sweet onion jam and a fried egg.

Today I made a big batch of turkey tetrazzini with the Thanksgiving turkey that keeps on giving—more cheesy goodness. And spent some time tending the sunroom garden. It was restful self-care. I also attended the Upaya Zen Center teaching on courage and resilience, and listened to Francis Weller on caring for our souls in uncertain times. I’m grateful to have access to these supportive resources.

I’m also grateful to be able to offer resources to support others through the mindfulness course coming up on February 20, the Telesangha I lead weekday mornings, and other avenues. I’m grateful for the multiple mindfulness skills I continue to learn and practice daily which help me cultivate courage and resilience during this dark turning. It will invariably change.

I can hardly wait for the red yarn to arrive so I can join knitters around the world in making Melt the ICE hats. Amy bought the pattern from the Minneapolis yarn shop that created it and has raised nearly half a million dollars to support immigrants.

What is this curious little creature I found in the sunroom today? (The one above I mean, not the one below.) It’s doing whatever it’s doing on the trunk of the bonsai honeysuckle. I’ll just wait and see what happens, knowing it will invariably change.

The Market Square

Jan28

My generous cousin sent me a couple of ancestral jigsaw puzzles for my birthday. I love these puzzles for several reasons. This is the fourth I’ve gotten to do: The Market Square. I love the evocation of simpler times, the craft of being cut with an actual jigsaw by an individual, the way they don’t completely lock together like modern puzzles but segments slide apart at the slightest touch. They require a most delicate approach. I love that there’s no picture, just the title, so the image grows from mystery to completion. I love my great grandmother’s handwriting on the lid, and the note that one piece is missing. I love that at nearly 100 years old the pieces remain mostly in great shape.

I love that they’re small enough to do on just part of my desk so I can do a few pieces at a time on a short work break without rearranging my workspace for days at a time. I love the muted colors, the cuts that delineate color blocks adding difficulty, the illusion of bringing order to my mind as I fit the pieces. I love giving myself this little gift a few times a day as a way of surrendering to who I am: imperfect, aspiring, basically a good person despite the habitual afflictive thoughts and emotions that arise continually, despite the practice.

This is the second puzzle I’ve done this season knowing a piece is missing and not knowing which piece. It requires a looser approach and more comfort with uncertainty. It’s a good analogy for my own growth. Something’s missing, I don’t quite know what, I just trust the process and keep putting pieces together to eventually get a pretty complete picture.

I’m grateful today for the kindness of two people in this little community, one who helped soothe my struggling body and one who helped comfort my challenged mind; both provided the spaciousness to let go of a little suffering. May we all do the same for one another.

Year of Birthday Cakes

Jan25
I saw the first mini irises popped up in the dry dirt on January 21, the earliest ever I think.

I want to be a helper. I am certainly grateful these days for the reminder to look for the helpers, when the wounds are so heavy. The contrast between the monks walking for peace across the south and the ICE thugs besieging Minneapolis is staggering.

Bird Buddy caught this lovely northern flicker Friday morning, just as the lightest snow began to fall.

The helpers, the good people with big hearts, are showing up in many thousands along the trail of the Walk for Peace monks; and the helpers generating compassion in action are showing up in the many thousands in the Twin Cities. It’s helpful to keep these many thousands of good-hearted Americans in mind.

By bedtime when I went to shut off the generator the snow was deep and heavy, weighing down birch limbs and wild rose stems almost to the ground.

My heart breaks for the VA nurse murdered yesterday and the mother murdered two weeks ago, and the two-year-old girl and the five-year-old boy and the fourth-grader and and and… I mean just imagine it for a second and it can’t help but break your heart (if you have one): a tiny child with no sense of what’s happening or why suddenly ripped away by strangers from all they know, and shipped to who knows where.

This morning the sun came out.

The sun coming out helped my heart yesterday. I remember the wisdom of the teachers that when I get mired in sadness because of anyone’s suffering I’m helping no one. I only help if I let that sadness morph into compassion and take action to alleviate the suffering of others. You can do it too. Call your congresspeople every day, show up in the streets if you’re able, write letters to editors, talk with friends and family, share reliable news sources with them if they’re blinded by propaganda from the regime. Do something to support the resistance: action is the antidote to anxiety. The stakes have never been higher.

Also, or if it’s all you can manage, do some random act of kindness for a neighbor, or a friend, or a stranger. And also: take care of your own nervous system. Everyone has their own unique capacities in each moment, each day. I took the weekend off, mostly, from screen time, from news, and still it was hard to relax. There’s this dreadful undercurrent, against which happiness, joy, and gratefulness become acts of resistance. So I spent the weekend in the kitchen, mostly, baking for friends and neighbors in gratefulness for their kindness.

Watching as much GBBO as I do, I got to feeling that there are too many great cakes and not enough birthdays. It’s time to step up my cake game, and anything you want to get good at requires practice. So I decided that I’d try to bake a birthday cake for everyone in my found family here this year. Clearly I can’t ship them to Portland, Florida, Santa Cruz, Virginia, Alabama, etc., but if I can drive it I aspire to bake it.

Today was devoted to a Bake Off worthy birthday cake for Neighbor Mary. The challenge I set myself was creative fillings, so I made white chocolate ganache and piped it around the bottom layer because that’s what the bakers on the show do. I don’t know why. I covered the first layer with ginger jam and a thin layer of the ganache.

Atop the second layer I smoothed the last of the raspberry and hibiscus jam, sorry there wasn’t more of it but committed to it once I started. I didn’t want to mix it with any other jam and get judged for sloppy flavors. (Does Paul Hollywood say sloppy flavors? I don’t think so.) I didn’t have a time limit and two kitchen icons waiting to judge me, but I can’t say that it wasn’t a bit stressful. But the fun kind of stress, where you’re stretching your capacities in your growth zone, like on the show.

I did have a deadline and some important distractions throughout the day. I was glad I had paced the elements, baking in the morning so it could cool completely, making the ganache before lunch so it had time to cool enough to whip, and starting assembly immediately after my family zoom so I could deliver before dark.

I covered the whole cake with chocolate cream cheese buttercream. Please recall that piping was not the challenge. Piping does challenge me, and I easily loaded the piping bag with a trick I saw on Instagram from Blue Cottage Bakery, so I gave myself a pat on the back for that step in the right direction. I scribbled the remaining ganache on top, plunked the cake in a Chewy delivery box, ripped the snow cover off the windshield dislodging six inches of frozen snow, and drove around the block just after sunset.

Neighbor Mary was thrilled. Her delight and joy was the icing on the cake for me. I begged her to wait for her birthday tomorrow to cut it, but she wanted to send me home with my tithe tonight so she cut a sliver for herself as well. (That’s my tithe above, and her sliver below. Obviously, I need to taste test all the birthday cakes so I can judge for myself.)

As she tasted and swooned over the various components, I told her what they were. I waited til the end to tell her what kind of cake it was. I wanted to capture her reaction for all time. “It’s a chocolate mayonnaise cake,” I said, camera ready.

“Yay mayonnaise!!!”
If you were wondering about the first cake picture, in the mixing bowl, now you know: white sugar, brown sugar, and lots of mayonnaise.
Obligatory Wren picture to share the joy: So often when I get up from the couch during TV time, to fuel the fire or refill my water glass or feed the cat, a line from ‘Cecelia’ sings to mind: “…when I come back to bed someone’s taken my place.”
And just to give Topaz equal time: it’s a little blurry because she’s always looking around, but for one remarkably rare moment yesterday she sat on my lap.

Equanimity

Jan20

It’s felt both lovely and freaky to sit down at the pond for awhile almost every day this birthday week. Meditating, reading, sipping tea, pondering the implications of this dry, warm January. It doesn’t bode well for summer, but it does encourage savoring the present moment.

The future of the planet feels urgently precarious these days, more than ever before, with its fate literally in the hands of a tragically mad tyrant. How is it possible that no one seems able or willing to stop him?

From Instagram
Much love and many fun things came on my birthday, including stickers both whimsical and political.
I got the best laugh when I brought down the mail on my birthday, and in the first package I opened found this adorable card—and there was another one in the next envelope! What are the odds? I felt seen and known.

There have always been mad tyrants, but it’s the exponential scale of the chaos he’s sowing that’s existentially terrifying. Quotidian delights feel both less relevant and more precious. It takes sustained effort to hold awareness of national and global events, participate in resistance, and still experience inner peace and stability. I guess the good lord never gives you more than you can handle, or at least that’s what they say. Maybe that’s why I’ve been obsessed with personal discomfort, it’s easier than focusing on international calamity.

Celebrating various angles on this spectacular orchid as the sun lights it through the day.

I confess to feeling a little disappointed. I had pinned my hopes for some relief on an appointment with a new dentist tomorrow, which got canceled this afternoon. I’ve been waiting six weeks for this. The incremental improvement that has crept along for six months more or less plateaued around the holidays, and I’m left with several areas of constant and distracting discomfort, plus occasional pain and some anxiety about longterm tooth health.

The house sparrows continue to roost in the wild rose, challenging Wren’s equanimity or delighting her, not sure which.

Teeth are hitting and clacking that aren’t supposed to. Chewing, especially soft foods, is the sensory equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard. The lower jaw remains stiff and forward of where it should be, with tension along the lower right jaw; at rest my mouth won’t close without effort. My tongue feels too big for my mouth, and a hundred times a day I consciously release it from twisting and pressing into the upper right front teeth; internal pressure in that jaw fans up into my cheek and eye bones, into a low-grade headache most of the time. And some other stuff.

The tame roses that came for my birthday continue to delight me with their vibrant colors.

I just wanted to tell all this to someone who might be able to explain and help. For six weeks I’ve been documenting symptoms and rehearsing/trying not to rehearse what I would say to the new dentist. Maybe writing it down here will help me quit rehashing the narrative in my head, and free me to simply live each moment without the burden of story.

Pickled red onion has become one of my favorite condiments. For so long it was a hasty afterthought, but this week I planned it and made a whole pint so I could use it generously in sandwiches and salads.

The original dentist who did the crowns left the practice, and her partner did a couple of follow ups but then quit. She told me in December that whatever is going on with me now has nothing to do with her partner’s work, “it’s been too long.” None of these symptoms is new: they have all been ongoing since July, and have fortunately decreased with time. I have resisted paying the balance on work that I believe was badly done. We are at a mutually resentful impasse.

But my disappointment at the cancellation was tempered in the same instant as learning of it. “The doctor has a medical emergency she needs to take care of,” the message said, “and she’ll be out of the office for a few weeks.” I called back to offer well wishes and reschedule. “We’ve got a lot of calls to make,” she said. “We don’t even know the extent of it yet.” My heart sank for the dentist, for her staff, for her family. Was it herself? A child, a parent? It could be anything. Compassion rose immediately, eclipsing disappointment and curiosity. And I’m grateful for that.

Little Wren warming by the pond this morning.

There was a time when disappointment about my personal situation or fear about global unrest would have been the defining emotion of my day, but mindfulness practice has transformed my perspective. The two boundless qualities of equanimity and compassion have truly found a foothold in my heart, balancing the more afflictive emotions that still reside there.

From Instagram: Venerable Samma Maggo has left the Walk for Peace to return to his dwelling place in France. He walked bent over his hiking poles, keeping pace with his brothers, with deep concentration. At rest stops, he radiated peace with the most beatific expression. May I emulate his courage and commitment.

Two Days…

Jan17

…and counting! I’m grateful for patience and trust from friends this morning, and of course for the cheese sandwich. Today’s included leftover Brie, gifted sliced chicken breast, sriracha mayo and regular mayo, romaine, and pickled red onion on fresh sourdough. But mostly I’m grateful I’ve lived another day. There was meant to be more to this post but the internets balked and it’s bedtime. May tomorrow be your peaceful day.

Those Awful Little Monks

Jan16
Monks of the Drepung Loseling monastery visit our valley occasionally. Here is the opening ceremony of a sand mandala ritual from many years ago.

Aloka the Peace Dog, recovering well from surgery to repair an old injury from when he was a stray in India, was able to join his pack today for awhile before returning to rehab. I was grateful to see video of this joyful, tail-wagging, tearful reunion this morning, and also grateful to see that the Walk for Peace is finally showing up here and there on national newscasts.

The sand mandala begins with a string line…

Speaking of monks, let me tell you the story of the “awful little monks.” This happened about twenty-six and a half years ago. There’s a wealthy man here who sponsors semi-regular visits by a group of Buddhist monks from the Drepung Loseling monastery. Every few years since I moved here they come to the valley and offer teachings, home blessings, the occasional butter sculpture demonstration, or a sand mandala ritual for the wellbeing of the community.

Each year there are different monks in the touring group, who travel the country as cultural and spiritual ambassadors, similar to the Walk for Peace monks though not on foot. In each town they are fed and housed by community members and offer teachings and blessings. So the monks in this series of photographs are not the “awful little monks,” a judgy nickname I gave a different group, and maybe you’ll forgive me after you hear the story.

The sand mandala ritual takes days or even weeks to complete. I’ve had the good fortune to attend a few over the years, and dug up some photos today from one ritual where I attended the opening ceremony and initial laying out of the table, then came again a few days later, and also made it to the closing ceremony.

On the year in question the monks did something a little different. They offered personal consultations with either a Tibetan medicine group, or a Tibetan astrology group. Ever since my early twenties I’ve longed for the opportunity to consult with a Tibetan medical practitioner, after a friend told his tale of the little yellow pills that saved his life. Right before leaving Nepal he felt ill, and a Tibetan doctor gave him a packet of little yellow pills. Take one three times a day and you will be fine. He was pretty sure he could make it home and see a real doctor, so he tucked them in a pocket and didn’t take any. By the time he arrived in London he was delirious, was taken off the plane to hospital, and diagnosed with yellow fever. He heard them say it was touch and go. Somehow he managed to find the yellow pills in his clothes and he started taking them. He improved immediately. “You’ve made a miracle recovery,” the doctors said. 

I wanted some medical magic like that. But on an impulse I regret to this day, I chose to meet the astrology group. I don’t recall exactly what means they used, but after getting my birth date and perhaps location, and consulting something somehow, they placidly announced in broken English, “Lifespan twenty-seven.”

“WHAT?!” I screeched. “Twenty-seven years to live?!”

“Present lifestyle,” they calmly replied. I instantly wished I could leave the table and go upstairs where the Tibetan medicine group was, but I was too polite, or too shocked, to move. After that they told me a bunch of other things, including that Tuesday was my auspicious day for spiritual practice, but I didn’t retain much more.

As I walked to my car I met Liz who was glowing from her reading. I just couldn’t. “They told me I have twenty-seven years left to live!” I whined. “Oh they told me that too!” she said cheerfully. “Yeah, but you’re already, what, sixty-four?” I was forty. Liz celebrated her ninetieth birthday last year. I’ll be watching her…

So today I celebrated sixty-seven. It’s true that I’ve turned my lifestyle around about a hundred and eighty degrees, and that a Ute shaman had told me years before the monks’ prognostication that I will live to be eighty-eight, so I’m not terribly worried. But for the past twenty-seven years the words of those awful little monks have wormed their way into my psyche like a brain-eating parasite.

A few years ago, I finally mentioned this nagging anxiety to someone involved in facilitating that visit. She was tremendously reassuring. “Oh they said that to everyone!” she laughed. “A lot of people have complained about that.”

So what was their point? Were they just messing with us for fun? Or were they trying to scare us into a healthy transformation? Or… did they tell everyone that because this is the year that the End Times truly come, through divine intervention, collective karma, or the tantrums of a madman, and we’ll all be dead by January 15, 2027? That’s feeling more and more possible. Any which way, I don’t like it, I don’t feel it was appropriate, and it’s haunted me for nearly a third of my life. Yes, I am highly sensitive and tragically susceptible. Oh well. I share this story with you so that if I survive until my sixty-eighth birthday you’ll better understand my glee, and if I do not live through this year you may rethink your world view and your lifestyle.

The sand mandala is an exquisite and ephemeral art form. The images vary according to the particular intention of the blessing or lesson it invokes, but the process is always this meditative creation of a potent symbol from vibrantly colored sand, meticulously laid down a few grains at a time. The act of its creation is sacred. The necessary concentration and cooperation cultivate a meditative focus. It is absolutely mesmerizing to watch. Its overarching lesson is Impermanence.

On the Buddhist path, we are invited to learn something from everything that happens in our life. (Yes, Marion, everything always IS a lesson.) Because everything contains the opportunity to learn, we are encouraged to be grateful for everything that happens, so that we may grow in understanding and progress in our journey to awakening. I’ve learned the lesson of Impermanence over and over and over again, and no matter how many times I learn it in lessons big and small, it can still catch me off guard. It’s possible that I’m just now comprehending the gift those awful little monks gave me with their shocking pronouncement, just this minute finding gratitude for their influence in turning my life around, just this second letting go of that regret.

On the final day of the ceremony, the sand mandala is reverently swept to the center of the circle. Some of the sand is gathered in tiny plastic envelopes and given to anyone there who wants one. The rest of the sand is returned to the earth. At this particular ceremony, the sand was carried in a small urn by the monks, followed in procession by many of us from the Creamery Arts Center several blocks through town to the bank of the North Fork River, where it was gently poured into the river.

All things arise, exist for a time, and cease to exist. This is the truth of Impermanence. Death is certain, time of death uncertain. If I should cease to exist in this my sixty-eighth turn around the sun, I will pass on with a grateful heart for all the gifts and all the lessons that filled this life, as light and vibrant as colored sand slipping back into the flow.