Empty Chairs, not Empty Tables

Welcome, world! A brief nod to the obvious fact that it's been quite a while since I updated this blog. A lot has changed in my life: new jobs, a new degree, a new business. What hasn't changed is my commitment to staying true to the values of meditation, yoga and massage: the combination "soft fist" of firm, unyielding acceptance.

 The biggest change, relevant to this blog, is that I no longer participate in the same Dharma circle that I previously did. That circle, alas, has moved on. But I still belong to several awesome meditation groups, including the HUB Bay Area, Dharma Punx, and SF Insight. And I still practice.

One interesting thing about the Dharma, which separates it to some extent from Yoga, or massage, is that it truly is a life philosophy. That is, although you can use meditation as a practice which starts and stops, in reality it is a life-long habit, which is always with us. It's no coincidence that one dominant form of meditation practice, especially here in the Bay, is the vipassana, or breathing meditation. Much like breathing, meditation is a state which can and should follow us at all times - just as we never stop breathing, we never stop coming back to the breath, to our center. Usually this constant nature of existence is just a background to our lives, but occasionally it shows itself, often when we least expect it. As if by gentle reminder, life pushes something into our path that drags us back to awareness of the wonder and mystery of life itself, and consciousness. And the other day, I had one of those experiences.

This weekend, I met my Ragnar team for a quick jog and brunch at the Vault Cafe in Berkeley (incidentally, try the mimosa: it's amazing). We sat down to eat and were waiting for one of our party, so we asked the waiter to set the table for 6 even though there were only 5 of us. He was a slightly older gentleman, who later revealed himself to be one of the owners - and he gave us quite an odd look. When we noticed his confusion, he stopped, started to speak, clearly came to some internal decision, and then began to tell a story.

"You may notice my odd look," he said. "And I apologize, but you see, for me your empty place has special meaning." And he told us this: one day, several years ago, a man came in to eat. He was young, younger than me - perhaps mid twenties - clean, well groomed, with a pleasant demeanor and a warm smile. He asked for a table for two, and was given one, complete with two place settings. The owner served him personally. When asked if he was waiting for someone, he said no. But when he ordered, he ordered two complete meals; two entrees, two drinks, etc. Of course these days a waiter might ask twice, but the owner clearly came from the generation that doesn't pry, and so he didn't - he just served two plates. He watched, in amazement, as the young man treated the second, empty place with dignity and care. The chair was pulled out for the (non-existent) guest to sit. Food was served. I asked the owner if he heard the young man actually speak to the empty chair, and he said generally no, but he was deferential and pleasant, as if an honored guest or a loved one was dining with him. He would fold the napkin, fill the water glass. This went on for the entire meal. The staff, bewildered, finally asked if he wanted the food boxed or saved. No, he said, just the check, thank you. He paid, and left behind a substantial tip.

The first time, they saved the food for hours, in case he might come back. But he did not; at least, not that day. But the following week, he showed up again.


And so it has been now, for several years, almost every week. The young man comes in, sits at a table for two, orders for two, pays and leaves a substantial tip, and leaves. Nobody knows why, nobody asks.

This story touches me in so many ways, but first and foremost is the power of love. For what else can you call it? This man is in love - with someone, something. Is it a past wife? A lover? A parent? Perhaps, he is, as they sometimes say, "in love with love itself". But this love, this deep and abiding respect, resonates out beyond this one young man, to touch the lives of many others. It has touched the life of the owner - he told us, with no mockery in his voice, that this young man is like a hero to him, and has taught him the power of love. Every time he sees him, he says, he is a little nicer to his wife and children, more pleasant to strangers, more *aware* of the magic and mystery that is all around us, ready to be seen at all times if only we look. "This man is a model for society," the owner said. "If only we all could follow his example."

I find myself touched as well, by the owner's deference and patience in not prying. When I asked him about it he just shrugged. "He is hurting no-one," he said. "Why should I not allow him to do as he pleases? In fact, I welcome him."

What is love? What is life? Why are we here? What is the meaning of our existence? Is it madness to fill an empty chair with love? Perhaps. Some might say this man needs help. One member of our table speculated on the nature of his mental illness. But I am not so sure. Are we mad to seek love where there is nothing? I have seen the power of love manifest on my own life, the joy that comes from being in love, from loving without any expectation of return. Perhaps this is the ultimate in unconditional love; the love that loves for its own sake. It's certainly true that it's more fun to love a real person than an empty chair.

Consider, though, how much time we spend on un-love for things that don't exist; past lovers, political ideals, imagined demons inside ourselves. The imaginary weight we need to lose, the trip to the gym that we didn't make. Like the empty chair, none of these things exist, and yet we often spend enormous amounts of time and energy hating them.

 I don't know the answers. And, perhaps, in the end, that's the best lesson of all.

 --A

Dharma Leadership - Engaged Buddhism

Next week I will be leading my Sangha on the topic of Engaged Buddhism. I recently became interested in this topic after reading Thomas Merton's version of "Gandhi: On Non-Violence." In his works, Gandhi advocated a unique blend of Christian and Hindu activism based on non-violence. I'm particularly interested in his focus on political activism. In reading, I was struck by the juxtaposition with my recent trip to the Abayaghiri Monastery. In their particular sect of Buddhism, the monks at Abayaghiri do no work. They rely entirely on the generosity of others.

How do we reconcile these viewpoints?

First, Gandhi:

II-216: "Intellectual work is important and has an undoubted place in the scheme of life. But what I insist on is the necessity of physical labor. No man, I claim, ought to be free from that obligation."

I-170: "I could not be leading a religious life unless I identified myself with the whole of mankind, and that I could not do unless I took part in politics. The gamut of man's activities today constitutes an indivisible whole. You cannot divide social, political, economic and purely religious work into watertight compartments."

In this, Gandhi is somewhat echoing the Bhagavad Gita, a work he was strongly influenced by. In there we find the concept of dharma as religious duty.

Gandhi was not, of course, a Buddhist, rather believing in the essential goodness of man and the concept of ahisma above any particular religion. And yet we do think of him as a man of peace, certainly an ascetic and a man who would regularly pray and fast.

The Tao Te Ching tells us "There is no disaster greater than not being content". "He who puts it in order will ruin it." "There may be gold and jade filling the chamber but there are none that can keep them safe".

The Buddha tells us "Desire is the root of evil, illusion is the root of evil.” He tells us "The greatest effort is not concerned with results."

There is no question that Gandhi suffered, and suffered greatly.

What would the Buddha think of Mahatma Gandhi?

Story Time - Six Kinds of Falafel

Sometimes I have experiences that teach me something about humanity, and myself, in the strangest places.

Dateline: The Rum Jungle Buffet, in the Casino Fandango, Carson City, NV. Saturday, the middle of November. After a long day on the ski slopes teaching little kids, I'm itching - for some reason - for the typical Las Vegas casino buffet experience, and Carson City is the closest place. Carson City is the intersection of suburbia and the gambling economy. Nestled on the border of Nevada and California east of Lake Tahoe, it is both somewhere and nowhere at the same time, and this is also an apt description of the Casino Fandango. I drive through a strip mall into a deceptively large garage, park, and walk through the cold dry Nevada air into what could be a conference center except for the overly large neon sign advertising a cover band for a band I'd never heard of. Fandango is busy inside; wheels are spinning, lights are flashing. There's less smoke than you would expect and it's actually quieter than you would think, especially in the back towards the restaurant.

The Rum Jungle is tacky, overdone and garish, but for all of that it has a homey feel. I'm there late, about 8:30 PM, and the place is not very busy. A Hispanic man vacuums the floor. He has to keep moving the cord to find a new plug. Fake fans rotate - purely for show - above the extremely well lit containers of food. The food, incidentally, is surprisingly good. I chat with the chef about one dish, a shrimp dish he appears to have invented with cheese and bell peppers. He seems proud, and eager to discuss it.

I sit in a booth next to a family - 3 of them, an older woman, a younger woman and a younger man. I quickly assign them roles - she's the mother, then a daughter and the daughter's boyfriend or husband. I could be wrong, of course. All 3 are overweight. The mother is particularly obese. They are cheery; they're having a good time, and I quickly understand why these sorts of casinos are so ubiquitous. This family - this very normal American lower middle class family - is having a great time, at a cost they can afford.

At one point the mother comes back from the buffet with a full plate, beaming broadly at the other two. I can overhear their whole conversation. "Look," she says, "they have six kinds of falafel! Can you believe that?" The others nod and smile. The mood brightens even more.

This woman - this 50-something woman - is excited because the buffet has six kinds of falafel. This is a person who - I am quite certain - would not go into a falafel restaurant, were there one in Carson City. I would not be shocked if she wasn't entirely clear on what falafel was; this is not a commentary on her intelligence, more to bring up the question: Why is she so excited? What's so positive about the falafel that it should make her so happy?

It's clearly not the falafel. It's not even about food; she has plenty. She is not excited about eastern cuisine. I think the first clue is how excited she is to get back to the table and show the others. The falafel is exciting because she gets to share it with her family. She's actually in a hurry to show them. And they play their parts perfectly; they're excited because she is. This woman would not have been nearly as excited if she was on her own; in fact she most likely wouldn't have come to the buffet at all. And I realize something: she is excited *because she feels important*. The falafel isn't there to be eaten; it's there as a symbol; an indication that, in return for her $22.95, this particular casino at this particular time cares that she is there; in fact, cares so much that they are willing to create six kinds of this exotic dish *just to impress her*. She is impressed *because someone tried to impress her*, and for no other reason. What this woman wanted, and wants, is what we all want: not things, not food nor money, but acknowledgment that we are important, that we matter, that someone cares that we're here and that our opinion is important. She had gathered her family together - and paid - for precisely that feeling.

This, of course, is not big news. We all know this. And yet, we often strive for the falafel of life, confused about what it is we really want and why we want it. What we want is love, and empathy, and affection. Falafel is, at best, the means to an end, but it is that end that I want to strive for. And so, sitting alone in that buffet, I realized that this woman had me beat. She had family.

I only had the falafel.

Story Time - Empathy

I wanted to share an anecdote with all of you (whoever might be reading this) because I thought it was interesting and illuminating, and I hope it might resonate with some of you.

Recently, I've been reading a fantastic series of books by Bruce Perry, a PhD/MD child psychologist who specializes in working with children who have been through traumatic experiences. For example he worked with the kids who escaped the Branch Davidian complex in Waco, TX. His first book is called "The Boy Who Was Raised As A Dog", and as the name suggests there is a story about a child who was raised - actually with some affection, if you can believe that - by a misguided and lonely old man who was a dog kennel breeder and had no support structure. The child was brought up with plenty of food and medical care, and even loved in a certain way, but didn't get the sort of daily socializing that generally toddlers get. As Dr. Perry shows in the book, this lack of basic human connection; being held, being smiled at, having our toes counted - results in some drastic impairments, the most obvious of which is a lack of empathy.

Essentially, we now have the hard science to show that empathy begets empathy, and that a lack of empathy - particularly as a child - breeds a lack of empathy. For those who work in the softer disciplines, like social work or meditation, this is hardly surprising. But for many of us with more scientific backgrounds, it's pretty breathtaking to see the connection so vividly.

Which brings me to my story. Last week, I went to a therapy session which was being held out in Oakland, at a healing center. I won't mention what the therapy was, or where the healing center was, because I don't want to discredit them. I'd agreed to travel out to that center because it was easier for my therapist. She was bringing along another therapist friend to help with the session. I was paying a good deal for this hour therapy session. Unfortunately, her friend didn't text her to tell her where to pick her up until it was too late. That made my therapist late to our appointment (by 20 minutes). I didn't know this, so I showed up on time. I rang the doorbell and the woman who answered seemed wary. I mentioned the name of my therapist and she said "Oh, she's not here yet. Can you wait outside?" and pointed at a bench. Her body language made clear that I was not welcome inside. I should mention that it was quite cold, and there was a combination lock on the door.

Now, let's just stop the story there and think about this. I was getting *therapy*, at a *center for healing*. In fact, a temple of sorts. And yet, I was being asked to wait outside in the cold!

The point of this story is not that the woman who answered the door is mean, or was wrong. Nor that my therapist is a bad person. They live in an environment where their actions made sense. Undoubtedly the woman at the center had been told not to let customers wait inside without a host. She did not know my therapist personally, and in fact may even have been a competitor of sorts. They may even have had problems with crime, or people taking advantage of them. And my therapist was late because she, and her friend, are extremely busy people, travelling across town.

Imagine, for a moment, that this situation had taken place as little as 50 years ago. I wasn't born then, of course, but from my elders and books I get the sense that this wouldn't have happened. Likely, my therapist would not have been late, because she would have already been at her office (instead, my therapist, like many others, rents space at various places to make ends meet). Her friend would have arrived well in advance of the appointment (likely in her own car). The temple would most likely not have even been locked. If I had arrived early, the secretary (what a luxury!) would most likely have offered me coffee, and a comfortable chair to sit in while I waited. She might have even apologized for the inconvenience, even if it wasn't her fault.

The point is this: we live in an environment which has a serious empathy deficit. We are simply too busy, too self-focussed, and conditioned to respond to people without empathy, even in situations where empathy might be called for, such as a meditation center or a temple. We are trained to provide suspicion. We are rewarded for being so busy that we don't have time to help a friend or even say a kind word. People who are genuinely gentle and empathetic make us feel awkward, or even nervous. This is a self-perpetuating problem: being treated that way reinforces the cycle. Altruism is tenuous: once we no longer believe that others will selflessly help us, it becomes a self-fullfilling prophecy.

I'm not saying I know the answer, but I think it's important to engage the problem. What do you think?

Dharma Leadership - Right Mindfulness

Dharma leadership - right mindfulness

Last week I taught a class on Right Mindfulness, or "Sati", to my youth class. Right Mindfulness is the seventh of the eightfold path to enlightenment. One translation of the concept into English is "bare attention", although that only captures one facet of mindfulness. In essence, the goal of one seeking mindfulness is to avoid letting the mind embellish the senses, in an effort to get at the "real" world of physical sensation. I will quote from The Noble Eightfold Path by Bhikku Bodhi: "All judgements and interpretations, if they occur, should be just registered and dropped."

One analogy that works well for me in understanding this concept is that of a "diagnostic" mode, like as for cars or computers. Understanding the raw sensations of the world is key to understanding our emotions, embellishments and ultimately our suffering, in the same way that knowledge of mechanical phenomena helps us fix our car, or knowing how to diagnose a computer virus can cure our desktop. Some of us, for example, may know nothing about cars; they are merely boxes which get us from Point a to b. And this works well, until something goes wrong. If we know nothing about cars, then we are at the mercy of a skilled mechanic (or worse). If he tells us that the problem with our turn signals is in the catalytic converter, we have no choice but to nod our heads and go along. But if we understand cars, then we have a chance of not only fixing the problem ourselves, but in understanding the advice of others. Similarly, if we know nothing about mindfulness, then when our mind tells us that we are upset or angry, we have no choice but to take its word for it. Of course in daily life we may not wish to constantly examine our emotions and thoughts any more than we wish to examine the inside of our car, but when it becomes critical, we must have already laid the foundation for mindfulness; "exercised" our mindfulness "muscle". Just as the wrong time to learn to change a tire is by the highway, so too the wrong time to understand our minds is when we are upset, or overly exuberant.

When we are mindful, we choose to see the world as it truly is. We experience sense phenomenon without embellishment. This is very hard. The mind wishes dearly to jump to interpretations and conclusions. I will quote again: "the mind perceives its object free from conceptualization only briefly. Immediately after grasping, it launches on a course of ideation...[it] posits concepts, joins the concepts into constructs...in the end the original direct experience has been overrun.".

It does not ring true to me that these concepts and constructs are not real, as some would say. Instead, I find that they are real, but they obey different laws than direct experience, and they cannot be confused with direct experience. To lump our thoughts together with our experience is profoundly misleading. It leads us to act as if they were solid and physical, when they are not. They are a guide, like the filing system at the library. They make sense, but we must be able to discard them. Becoming obsessed with them is like being obsessed with the call numbers on a book and never cracking the cover. I now quote from His Holiness the Dalai Lama:

For all anxiety and fear,
And pain in boundless quantity,
Their source and wellspring is the mind itself,
As He who spoke the truth declared.

He continues: "one may, of course, have some vague wish to attain enlightenment, or feel it is something one ought to attain. But without having the certainty that enlightenment exists and is accessible, one will never accomplish it. It is therefore very important to know what enlightenment means...all phenomena are by nature empty, devoid of true existence...but what is our perception? What we experience is just the opposite...we see everything as existent and real...we have been ignorantly clinging to our mistaken way of seeing things. Moreover, this ignorance has been the root of desire and hatred. Ignorance, the belief that things are real, is extremely powerful. But we should remember that it is nothing more than a mistake...it's opposite is based on a consistent truth that stands up to all argument."

And so, I encourage you to add mindfulness to your bag of tricks, just like carrying a spare tire in your car. You may not need it right now, but when you do you'll be very glad you have it!!

Dharma Leadership - Letting Go

“Some people think it’s holding that makes one strong—sometimes it’s letting go.” ~Unknown

Today, I sell my car. This might not seem like a big deal, but I've had my car for over 10 years. There are very few things in my life - outside my family - which have been constants in my life for more than 10 years. And so, I find myself having difficulty letting go. In every rational way, making this decision makes sense. I don't drive to work, the car is getting older and expensive to maintain, I have to pay to park. It's a manual car in a hilly city, and ZipCar is much more efficient. Plus, I'm doing a good deed by selling it; I'm selling it to a friend who really needs a car and I'm giving him a good deal. The net happiness of the universe will increase.

And...yet. When I look at the car, I see a friend, as absurd as that may sound to some of my fellow San Franciscans without cars. I see the car that drove me to my honeymoon flight. The car I drove from Austin to San Francisco in with my parents. That car is one of my last connections back to a life and memories which are quickly fading.

So, what's the point? The point is this: we are not logical decision makers. And that's a good thing! Life wouldn't be worth living if we were all Spock. But, at the same time, these memories and feelings can often cloud our judgment and keep us from making forward progress. It makes sense to sell my car! I will be happier. If I cling to the car, it will merely drain me of resources better spent on other topics, like my massage training. The memories are still there, they're not going anywhere. Hanging onto the car won't bring those experiences back; the past is past. Selling the car is an investment in my present and in my future.

(It helps that, since it's a friend buying the car, I can go visit it :] )

So...what's holding you back?

Story Time - There Is No End To The Mill Valley Bike Path

I haven't written in this space for a good while. The reason is simple; I haven't had anything I felt was worth listening to. A wise man once said "tis better to keep your mouth closed and be thought a fool than open it and remove all doubt." But, the other night I had something happen to me which felt profound. Whether it was profound depends, I suppose, on your point of view. It's a story that's been told many times by writers better than I. But this is my version.

The Bay area is a bit of a paradise for cyclists. There are trails criss-crossing the entire state, but particularly in and around San Francisco and Marin county. I like to ride, but I haven't been riding as much lately for a variety of reasons. A few weeks ago, though, I did the Buddhist Bicycle Pilgrimage, which was 130 miles through Marin. I think it rekindled a desire in me to go riding, and that desire caught a bit of wind on Tuesday. I was at work, and feeling cooped up. Without no particular plan in mind, I looked on the web for something to do. There was a movie coming up - a film I'd wanted to see, a biopic of Jane Goodall - in Larkspur. Larkspur was about 20 miles from where I was, and I'd ridden my bike to work. I checked the clock - I had just enough time. It was foolish, stupid even. I didn't have a working head lamp. I really needed to get some things done. If I just wanted to see the movie, I could drive. There was no reason to ride my bicycle over 20 miles of hills.

But that wasn't, actually, the scariest part.

There is a particular bike path in Mill Valley, a city about 15 miles north, called, appropriately, the Mill Valley Bike Path. It's a beautiful stretch of bike trail that goes along a marsh. At the southern end, it connects up to a great road through Sausalito, that then connects to roads leading to the Golden Gate bridge, and on into San Francisco. Riding that stretch and back happens to be about 20-25 miles from my first apartment I shared with my brother in the Marina. When I first moved to the city, it represented just about the right amount of time and energy. My first few trips were to Sausalito only, but I pushed myself to get to the end of that trail. My brother and I rode it many times.

At the end of the trail, there is a busy intersection. Don't ask me the names of the roads, I don't know, but both of them are at least 4 lanes. It's not immediately obvious where to go on a bicycle; it sort of seems to come to a logical stop in the middle of nowhere. So, when I got to that point, I would turn back. The first few times I did it, I thought that someday I might go past that point. But, as time went on, time constraints, luck, and maybe a bit of fear of the unknown meant that I never did. Time passed, months went by. I often thought of that stretch. Once, I even had a guide - my brother - take me past that spot and up into Larkspur. But we ended up on a road that I couldn't remember, and I couldn't recreate what he'd done. Another time, I pushed myself to take one of the scary busy roads. It was getting dark, and I was scared of getting lost, and I turned back almost right away.

3 years passed. Tuesday, I set out for Larkspur. I bought a headlamp in Mill Valley. Darkness started to approach and I got to the end of the trail. I looked around. I checked Google. Across the road I saw a sidewalk. I walked my bike across. I saw it turned into a bit of a path. I started down it.

45 minutes later, I was in Larkspur.

There is no end to the Mill Valley Bike Path! It was all in my head! The path is almost completely continuous! All you have to do is cross the street and poke your head behind a few trees, and there it is! More path! It's right there! Thousands, maybe millions, of people have undoubtedly ridden right past it without even a thought! But, to me, for 3 years it was an insurmountable obstacle, a huge barrier, a wall keeping me inside. Oh, I was happy, certainly: I love the ride up to Mill Valley. It is a nice, doable length and just the right amount of time on a bike. But - and this is a huge but - now I can stop because I choose to, knowing that there is more path right there if I ever want it.

What's the lesson? That's up to you. You could be depressed thinking about the walls people build for themselves. Elated that you can do anything you choose. You could pity me for my weakness, or commiserate with me on my humanity. Maybe the ultimate point is that the Mill Valley Bike Path, like any path we ride along, is entirely a thing of our own making, and we create our own reality merely by thinking that it's so.

There is no end to any path except the one we make for ourselves.

And now I know how to bike to Larkspur. I wonder what's on the other side?