The events of this past summer -- being essentially housebound for nearly two months due to bunion surgery; the six-week tragedy of the kittens and its emotional aftermath; just a general sense of increased stress and irritation with politics, certain aspects of our culture, things at work -- certainly provided the immediate motivation, but the idea was not by any means a bolt from the blue.
Being born at the tail-end of the Baby Boom, I'm not quite a child of the 60s, but I certainly was a child during the sixties, when Eastern religions entered our popular culture, and a teen and young adult during the 70s, when they became more mainstream, and an adult during the popular resurgence in the 90s as part of the New Age movement.
I dabbled in yoga a bit during the 70s, from books and occasionally along with Lilias, then picked it back up again the late 90s in grad school, using a videocassette, but always for the physical benefits, not the mental. I'd turn the tape off when corpse pose began, having no use for "touchy-feely artsy-fartsy New Age claptrap" (still don't, for that matter). I was in my mid-40s at that point, and frankly too self-conscious to go to any of the courses filled with nubile and flexible undergrads at the university rec center, but I also had no patience with the obvious New Age encroachments.
I read Joseph Campbells' "Hero with a thousand faces" when it hit the best seller lists in the 90s, and later watched the Bill Moyers' series on PBS. I even bought the book and the CDs. Besides providing a new, non-religious way to look at culture and religion, Campbell also presented a different version of Buddhism than I had picked up from pop culture, and one that distinguished between Hinduism and Buddhism -- and the Hare Krishna, transcendentalists, and other, generic gurus and yogis.
My religious and philosophical journey is too long to go into now; what is important is to note that once I began working on my ph.d. at UCLA in 1996, it was more or less put on hold. I had no need for it. School was my religion. It gave meaning and structure and purpose to my life. Those who have earned a ph.d. know that the process becomes your entire life; you socialize almost entirely with your fellow students; you work as a research assistant; you arrive on campus before breakfast and leave when it's bedtime.
You have to make a real effort to carve out some time for something not associated with your program or your school. In my case, it was weekly voice lessons and volunteering for the National Park Service. Even summer vacations became research trips. The upshot being that there is not a lot of time to ponder the meaning of life; that's not to say that such ideas don't cross your mind, but you generally push them aside to be dealt with "later."
Oh, yes, there are various personal and emotional crises, times of discouragement and depression, distractions and obsessions, but none of them is allowed to supplant the primary goal of earning that ph.d. They are just temporary detours that are necessary in order to recharge or to re-evaluate and re-focus. I thought about dropping out probably once a year or so, but I was always aware that I was really just throwing a tantrum -- except after 9/11, but that's a story for another time.
Then there were the two years of searching for a faculty position, while trying to keep body and soul together with a variety of temporary and part-time jobs. And then getting the job, buying a house, meeting Mike and getting engaged, moving to Baton Rouge from LA, adjusting to being a genuine, full-time, tenure-track faculty member, and getting married. I felt like I was on a speeding train that was constantly threatening to fly off the tracks!
I suspect that it was somewhere around my third year here, when my personal and professional life felt more settled and familiar that I started to really pay attention to the nagging existential angst that was always lurking somewhere underneath it all. I took stock and realized that, somewhere along the line, I had stopped believing in any supernatural power of any kind, but that, at the same time, I need some kind of objective, external philosophy to provide ethical touchstones, as it were.
The danger of creating your own, individual, unique philosophy is that you begin to justify and rationalize and even perhaps worship your own selfish needs and desires as ethical principles and as moral values. It's subtle and it's seductive, but it's also inevitable. You become your own god without some other person or community to occasionally kick you in the pants and remind you that you're human and fallible.
So, I looked at the Unitarians, and while their philosophy does include many of the core ethical principles that I feel are necessary, their emphasis on worship, spirituality and theology doesn't feel right for me. The minister has written several letters to the editor, and while I agree in principle, I find his language too overtly religious with its emphasis on a supernatural being and on Western scripture.
I also looked at yoga as a discpline, not just exercise. I read about the practice and checked out the websites of the various yoga studios. To be honest, I was put off by the photos of young, thin, attractive, flexible practitioners in impossible poses. And by the incursion of New Age thinking and practice; I have no desire to "sweat, laugh, chant and dance" or to channel any energies. And, frankly, by the price ($100/month? I think not). I'll stick with my DVDs for the time being. (This week, I discovered another studio, led by a member of Tam Bao; I am favorably impressed, so -- we'll see.)
I'm not sure at what point I started to think seriously about Buddhist meditation. As I say, I've always been aware of it. The Baton Rouge paper has run articles about the local Buddhist temple, so I've known that it is here. The Dalai Lama was in New Orleans earlier this year; the Saturday religion section frequently includes an article on Buddhism. My guess is that it was just a natural progression, as I eliminated other alternatives.
Not exactly the spiritual awakening that others report. And I would not, at this point, describe myself as a "Buddhist." I don't accept the doctrine of rebirth and I'm not convinced that what has been preserved and transmitted about the Buddha and his teachings is factual, other than the most general outline. I don't see that either one matters. If rebirth and karma are real, my not believing in them won't change that, and I do not have to believe in order to live a mindful and compassionate life. I would go so far as to say that living a mindful and compassionate life without the carrot and stick of karma could be considered more enlightened (maybe I need a swift kick?).
The story of the Buddha has power regardless of whether it is factual. The supernatural elements do not add to that power, and in fact, detract from it, as it creates a chasm between the Buddha and the average person. They also increase the danger that the Buddha will become an object of religious worship, rather than respect and veneration.
What matters about dharma is that it has been demonstrated to be useful and effective. The sutras teach abiding principles that have been distilled over the centuries, regardless of who first expounded them. They are part of a coherent system of belief and behavior that leads to individual and social improvement. And studying them also provides intellectual satisfaction.
As for rituals -- well, I enjoy a good ritual and I enjoy good theater. I recognize the power of signs and symbols. As long as I'm not expected to take them at face value and to accept their putative explanations, I can join in. All except prostration, for the time being.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Insights gained during two weeks of meditation
I've surprised myself by managing to maintain a regular daily meditation practice now for nearly two week. I would even go so far as to say that I look forward to it. The cats get me up by 5:00 anyway, and it's a much more psychologically healthy way to start the day than by arguing on Facebook or the Advocate Opinion pages.
My first insight is that this is hard! It's hard physically; my feet go to sleep, my back aches. It's hard emotionally -- it's hard to just sit for 20 or 30 minutes, "doing nothing." I sometimes feel guilty. My American upbringing tells me that I should be "doing things," accomplishing something, even if it's only to use the time to plan my day. It's hard mentally -- it's hard to clear the mind and keep it clear. I think I probably manage a total of 2-3 minutes of real mindfulness in any half hour. And, of course, trying to maintain mindfulness is the surest way to lose it. It is a precarious balance.
The abbott is back and led last week's practice. It was a different experience; a bit more structured and coherent. He was much more willing to be critical -- he noted that "one of the brothers has his head bent too far; it will interfere with his breathing" -- and walked around during the practice to correct posture (I assume it was he -- might have been one of the other two monks).
There's one insight there, by the way. It's practice, not worship. And that's why we go -- to practice mindfulness in a setting that is specifically designed to support it. Practice at home is certainly worthwhile and has its own benefits -- I am learning to ignore meows and whisker tickles and face rubs, as well as the sound of garbage trucks and Mike turning over in bed -- which are supported by a weekly guided practice without such distractions.
So, last week, as we were sitting, I realized that I had lost track of the number of bells; I knew we'd been sitting for at least 15 minutes, but I wasn't sure whether it had been 20 or 25. I wished that they would ring a bell, so that I would know how much time was left, and where I was in the practice. And that's when I arrived at my first understanding -- I was "now." That's where I was -- "now." We are always "now." In the West, we are so programmed to situate ourselves according to the clock and relative to time and events that we are seldom "now." We are almost always "nearly lunch," "half an hour before quitting time," "about to go on break," "late for that meeting." We lose "now" by defining ourselves relative to the past and the future, but especially the future. Our culture is always looking forward, planning for the future, setting goals and working on achieving them . . . and yet, the reality is that we are never anywhere except "now."
Am I more in the "now" as a result? Ummmm -- well -- old habits are hard to break. It will take more than two weeks.
During the practice, we are instructed to become aware of our minds and aware of our thoughts, to acknowledge them and let them go -- not to ignore them, but to let them go, or, as the abbott said this week, not to follow them as they connect with more and more thoughts. Ignoring them means making an effort to block them, which, of course, means focusing on them. Letting them go -- I imagine a scarf floating on the wind or wisps of steam dissipating -- means returning focus to the breath. And they do go. Some of them return later, but most of them are just random firings of neurons.
As I noted earlier, there is dharma talk after sitting. According to one of the books I read (I read about half an hour in some modern book about Buddhism after sitting in the morning), Buddhism is taught through discussion -- so it is "dharma talk," not "a dharma talk." The teacher guides the discussion, which is how the learning takes place; people are led to their own insights. How very pedagogically modern -- and ancient. Now that I understand this, I will be more tolerant. Nor necessarily more interested, but more tolerant.
Finally, this morning as I was reading a different author explaining mindfulness, it struck me that, in many ways, mindfulness is what the West calls "introversion." And, of course, rejects as a personality defect. Some of the teachings about mindfulness feel perfectly natural to me; they are the way I have always been. Needing time for myself away from others; being aware of my surroundings (Mike complains that I "never miss anything," which is an exaggeration); being aware of the complexity of situations and needing time to consider alternatives before arriving at a decision; having to focus on one thing at a time, rather than "mult-tasking." As Charles Emerson Winchester III said, "I do one thing. I do it very well. Then I move on."
Those, of course, are innate characteristics. I can hardly take credit for them. I certainly do not begin to have the mental discipline that is necessary for complete and constant mindfulness. It is more an interesting observation on different factors and aspects of cultural development. The West prizes extroversion and its major religions incorporate public spectacle and drama and public worship. Western religion is, as an Asian friend said, "out here." Prayers and worship are directed outward, toward another being. Meditation, contemplation -- these are reserved for the few, for the mystics and saints and cloistered religious orders, and their goal is union with the divine, which is outside of themselves.
Whereas, with Buddhism, the focus is inward for everyone. Meditation is standard practice. Tibetan Buddhism does incorporate some of the rituals of the Hindus -- and the Hindus certainly have a pantheon of gods "out there" -- but its primary focus is still on achieving mindful enlightenment.
My first insight is that this is hard! It's hard physically; my feet go to sleep, my back aches. It's hard emotionally -- it's hard to just sit for 20 or 30 minutes, "doing nothing." I sometimes feel guilty. My American upbringing tells me that I should be "doing things," accomplishing something, even if it's only to use the time to plan my day. It's hard mentally -- it's hard to clear the mind and keep it clear. I think I probably manage a total of 2-3 minutes of real mindfulness in any half hour. And, of course, trying to maintain mindfulness is the surest way to lose it. It is a precarious balance.
The abbott is back and led last week's practice. It was a different experience; a bit more structured and coherent. He was much more willing to be critical -- he noted that "one of the brothers has his head bent too far; it will interfere with his breathing" -- and walked around during the practice to correct posture (I assume it was he -- might have been one of the other two monks).
There's one insight there, by the way. It's practice, not worship. And that's why we go -- to practice mindfulness in a setting that is specifically designed to support it. Practice at home is certainly worthwhile and has its own benefits -- I am learning to ignore meows and whisker tickles and face rubs, as well as the sound of garbage trucks and Mike turning over in bed -- which are supported by a weekly guided practice without such distractions.
So, last week, as we were sitting, I realized that I had lost track of the number of bells; I knew we'd been sitting for at least 15 minutes, but I wasn't sure whether it had been 20 or 25. I wished that they would ring a bell, so that I would know how much time was left, and where I was in the practice. And that's when I arrived at my first understanding -- I was "now." That's where I was -- "now." We are always "now." In the West, we are so programmed to situate ourselves according to the clock and relative to time and events that we are seldom "now." We are almost always "nearly lunch," "half an hour before quitting time," "about to go on break," "late for that meeting." We lose "now" by defining ourselves relative to the past and the future, but especially the future. Our culture is always looking forward, planning for the future, setting goals and working on achieving them . . . and yet, the reality is that we are never anywhere except "now."
Am I more in the "now" as a result? Ummmm -- well -- old habits are hard to break. It will take more than two weeks.
During the practice, we are instructed to become aware of our minds and aware of our thoughts, to acknowledge them and let them go -- not to ignore them, but to let them go, or, as the abbott said this week, not to follow them as they connect with more and more thoughts. Ignoring them means making an effort to block them, which, of course, means focusing on them. Letting them go -- I imagine a scarf floating on the wind or wisps of steam dissipating -- means returning focus to the breath. And they do go. Some of them return later, but most of them are just random firings of neurons.
As I noted earlier, there is dharma talk after sitting. According to one of the books I read (I read about half an hour in some modern book about Buddhism after sitting in the morning), Buddhism is taught through discussion -- so it is "dharma talk," not "a dharma talk." The teacher guides the discussion, which is how the learning takes place; people are led to their own insights. How very pedagogically modern -- and ancient. Now that I understand this, I will be more tolerant. Nor necessarily more interested, but more tolerant.
Finally, this morning as I was reading a different author explaining mindfulness, it struck me that, in many ways, mindfulness is what the West calls "introversion." And, of course, rejects as a personality defect. Some of the teachings about mindfulness feel perfectly natural to me; they are the way I have always been. Needing time for myself away from others; being aware of my surroundings (Mike complains that I "never miss anything," which is an exaggeration); being aware of the complexity of situations and needing time to consider alternatives before arriving at a decision; having to focus on one thing at a time, rather than "mult-tasking." As Charles Emerson Winchester III said, "I do one thing. I do it very well. Then I move on."
Those, of course, are innate characteristics. I can hardly take credit for them. I certainly do not begin to have the mental discipline that is necessary for complete and constant mindfulness. It is more an interesting observation on different factors and aspects of cultural development. The West prizes extroversion and its major religions incorporate public spectacle and drama and public worship. Western religion is, as an Asian friend said, "out here." Prayers and worship are directed outward, toward another being. Meditation, contemplation -- these are reserved for the few, for the mystics and saints and cloistered religious orders, and their goal is union with the divine, which is outside of themselves.
Whereas, with Buddhism, the focus is inward for everyone. Meditation is standard practice. Tibetan Buddhism does incorporate some of the rituals of the Hindus -- and the Hindus certainly have a pantheon of gods "out there" -- but its primary focus is still on achieving mindful enlightenment.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
Trying Buddhism on for size
For the past couple of years, ever since our local paper ran a story about the installation of a new monk at the local Buddhist temple, I've toyed with the idea of looking more seriously at Buddhism. As with many people my age, the term immediately brings to mind flocks of saffron-robed teens hanging out at airports begging for money and bearded, long-haired pudgy androgynous gurus bilking the credulous. It takes almost an effort of will to divorce those images from the reality. On the other hand, I did experiment a bit with yoga as a teen, mainly from books, but occasionally along with Lilias, and became a semi-irregular practitioner while in grad school. I have a set of DVDs that I have employed for weeks at a time, off and on, over the past 10 years or so. And yes, I realize that yoga and Buddhism are different, but they arise from the same philosophical tradition.
After the troubles and disappointments and sadness of Wraith and her kittens, Mike checked out some books on meditation and Buddhism and read some passages to me which he found significant and helpful. That was the final impetus to push me to suggest that we visit the Tam Bao temple, if only for the guided meditation.
Why is there a Buddhist temple in the middle of this stronghold of Christian conservatism? For the same reason that there are many fine Vietnamese restaurants and Vietnamese grocery stores -- this is one of the areas of the country where Vietnamese refugees settled after the fall of Saigon. Southeastern Louisiana had the room, a climate that is similar to home, and the industries in which many of them were already proficient, especially fishing and shrimping. Many, but obviously not all, are Catholic. Most moved to New Orleans, but a sizable contingent moved north to Baton Rouge.
We drove out there last week to find out exactly where it is and how to get to it and where to park and all of those other little details that are particularly important in Baton Rouge, where the streets are deliberately designed to prevent through traffic. It was also an opportunity for a Vietnamese lunch at Viet Garden restaurant. The temple was not difficult to find, but getting into it was just a bit tricky the first time. We parked and walked around the grounds, noted the bigger, paved parking lot tucked away to one side, and peeked into the Buddha hall.
We had thought to attend one of the Tuesday night meditations, but after calling the Temple to verify the time, I had the distinct impression that I was being steered toward the Friday night English service. Possibly because the young man I spoke with kept saying, "Well, the English is on Friday night. Tonight is just Vietnamese." And given that Mike had to be to work at 6 a.m. on Wednesday, we changed our plans to Friday night.
After a day that included leaving home before 7 to get to campus early enough to park and walk to my office before robing and walking down to graduation and sitting through the two-hour ceremony (and constantly reminding myself that, while this is a tri-annual experience for me, it is a once-in-a-lifetime for the graduates), then back to my office for the reception, then back to the parking lot, I was ready for a little quiet mindfulness. Both of my feet were protesting the unaccustomed activity, the right a bit more than the left, of course.
I had planned a shrimp curry for dinner, but Mike said, in that way of his, "Oh, I thought we were going to get dinner at Little Saigon, since we'll be in that area." Uh-huh. Sure. But I was willing to be convinced not to cook dinner. So, that's what we did, although we ended up at Saigon Noodles, which has taken over from Little Saigon (which, I discovered today, has re-opened across the street), none of which is in any way relevant, except that this might become a regular Friday night event.
We arrived at the Temple at 7:00, about 20 minutes early. A nice young man in the parking lot told us that people were free to enter and sit quietly, so we did, leaving our shoes outside the door, along with three or four other pairs. The floor, which earlier in the week had been bare, was laid out with mats and cushions and book cradles. There are also padded benches along the outer walls. A man lifted one of the bench tops and took out an extra cushion. Mike and I selected places and, while Mike helped himself to a second cushion, I maneuvered my way down to a seated position and crossed my legs.
People began arriving in ones and twos and taking places; some paused to bow to the Buddha, others just sat. They were a very diverse group in every way -- age, race, sex, weight. A few looked like "typical" Buddhists -- tall, thin, in flowing clothing or yoga pants, who sat in the lotus position -- but most, well, did not. Most sat on cushions, quite a few of them sinking gracefully and crossing their legs without difficulty, but a handful sat on the benches.
A young man in a brown robe with a shaved head, who would later identify himself as "Brother Will," and a woman in a brown robe entered, bowed to the Buddha, and a few minutes later, the service began. One of the men rang the bell -- it is a very large bowl-shaped bell that is rung by striking it with a wooden ballet, and gives off a very resonant tone that reverberates through the hall; much more pleasant than I had anticipated -- and a young woman read an introduction to the service, so that newcomers would know what to expect without feeling singled out.
The abbott entered, we all rose. He offered incense to the Buddhal they went through the three prostrations. Although most of those in attendance did prostrate themselves, Mike and I were not the only two who refrained, mainly because we both doubted our ability to get back up again without help! Brother Will explained that, while meditating, we should ignore the need to scratch or move; that if we absolutely had to move, it should be done mindfully, and that any thoughts should be accepted and then let go. Shortly after, the lights were dimmed, the bell was rung, and we began our 30 minutes of meditation. The abbott chanted something in Vietnamese, which, like Gregorian chant, was more powerful for being unintelligible.
Every five minutes or so, Brother Will would softly ring the bell, and recite a chant in English to help us re-focus on our breath. Every time I would think "I can't do this," the bell would ring and I would find that I could -- until about 20 minutes into it, when I realized that I could no long feel my feet or my ankles. I could not move my toes. I began to panic; all I could think of was how essential it was that I restore circulation.
First, I used my hands to shift my feet farther from my body, which helped somewhat. I tried to re-focus, but with the restoration of blood flow, my feet had begun, first to tingle, and then ache. Then, I straightened out my left leg, and tried to re-focus, but really, at that point, all I was doing was waiting for the 30 minutes to end. I wondered what would have happened if I had just ignored it. Obviously, my feet were not going to develop gangrene in that little bit of time.
Blessedly, the time did come to an end. We were instructed to rub our hands together, then massage our face and head, then our neck and shoulders, our back, and finally out legs. Mike then went to sit on a bench along the wall; 10 minutes later, I wished I had joined him -- and we'll just start out at the wall the next time.
Brother Will then introduced himself, explained that the abbot is away on a retreat (but did not introduce the monk who was leading the service, whom I shall continue to call "the abbot") and gave the homily -- I cannot think of it as other than that. He is a monk-in-training of about 18 months and doing his best, but not the deepest thinker. He questioned us about "What makes you happy?" then expressed surprise that people said, "Family, love, friends" -- to me, the expected answers. He expected to hear "Cars, money, iPhones." So young and inexperienced. Even if that were what people thought, most would have known better than to actually say it. He sort of rambled on about the topic for 10 minutes or so, then same man who had lit the incense and run the bell to start also rambled on, reading some passages from the Buddha and the Dalai Lamah. After 20 minutes or so, I was not the only person who was restlessly shifting, and the abbot suddenly rang the bell softly, then loudly, then softly again after the sound had died away.
That served to refocus all of us; the man finished what he was saying, and the floor was opened to comments. Nothing particularly noteworthy, just people repeating the sorts of things you would expect about "happiness" -- family, nature, love. I thought about saying that, for me, happiness comes from learning and acquiring knowledge, but I didn't want to sound, well, like a prig.
Again, the abbot rang the bell, then pointed to a young Asian man and over to his right side. The young man quickly moved, picked up a microphone, and began to translate. The abbot repeated much of what had been said, but expanded on it and contextualized it within Buddhism and Dharma, in particular the difference between the happiness that comes from without and that which comes from within, and the fragility of happiness that is attached to the outer world.
It was while he was speaking that I realized that even family, love, nature provide a happiness from without; that even that happiness is fragile and short-lived; happiness that depends on anything outside of ourselves is subject to loss. Family die; they become estranged; grow-up and move on with their lives; thousands of psychiatrists, psychologists and counselors made a very good living telling women in the 1970s and later that they needed to find a life beyond their children; the empty-nest syndrome is still recognized. Even learning and knowledge can be lost to Alzheimer's or a stroke or dementia. Mindfulness means finding joy in what is now.
He then shifted tone, and asked those of us who were new to introduce ourselves; of the 50 or so people who were there, about 10 were there for the first time. Most of them were students at LSU, although one other woman was also faculty at LSU and new to Baton Rouge.
We ended with a group chant in English. The regulars quickly gathered up the cushions, mats, and book stands, while I gingerly walked over to Mike, testing whether my feet would bear me out to the car. We were greeted by a friendly ginger cat as we left the hall, who demanded pets from everyone who came out. We don't know whether it is a regular occurrence, but we rather hope so.
Are we ready to commit to this? Possibly. Certainly we want to make it a regular practice at home, and we find value in the guided meditation at this stage. We're not decided about becoming members of the community. The constant bowing to each other with hands in heart position felt awkward, but that can be overcome with time. I think we'll just take it as it comes, which is all that we're asked to do.
After the troubles and disappointments and sadness of Wraith and her kittens, Mike checked out some books on meditation and Buddhism and read some passages to me which he found significant and helpful. That was the final impetus to push me to suggest that we visit the Tam Bao temple, if only for the guided meditation.
Why is there a Buddhist temple in the middle of this stronghold of Christian conservatism? For the same reason that there are many fine Vietnamese restaurants and Vietnamese grocery stores -- this is one of the areas of the country where Vietnamese refugees settled after the fall of Saigon. Southeastern Louisiana had the room, a climate that is similar to home, and the industries in which many of them were already proficient, especially fishing and shrimping. Many, but obviously not all, are Catholic. Most moved to New Orleans, but a sizable contingent moved north to Baton Rouge.
We drove out there last week to find out exactly where it is and how to get to it and where to park and all of those other little details that are particularly important in Baton Rouge, where the streets are deliberately designed to prevent through traffic. It was also an opportunity for a Vietnamese lunch at Viet Garden restaurant. The temple was not difficult to find, but getting into it was just a bit tricky the first time. We parked and walked around the grounds, noted the bigger, paved parking lot tucked away to one side, and peeked into the Buddha hall.
We had thought to attend one of the Tuesday night meditations, but after calling the Temple to verify the time, I had the distinct impression that I was being steered toward the Friday night English service. Possibly because the young man I spoke with kept saying, "Well, the English is on Friday night. Tonight is just Vietnamese." And given that Mike had to be to work at 6 a.m. on Wednesday, we changed our plans to Friday night.
After a day that included leaving home before 7 to get to campus early enough to park and walk to my office before robing and walking down to graduation and sitting through the two-hour ceremony (and constantly reminding myself that, while this is a tri-annual experience for me, it is a once-in-a-lifetime for the graduates), then back to my office for the reception, then back to the parking lot, I was ready for a little quiet mindfulness. Both of my feet were protesting the unaccustomed activity, the right a bit more than the left, of course.
I had planned a shrimp curry for dinner, but Mike said, in that way of his, "Oh, I thought we were going to get dinner at Little Saigon, since we'll be in that area." Uh-huh. Sure. But I was willing to be convinced not to cook dinner. So, that's what we did, although we ended up at Saigon Noodles, which has taken over from Little Saigon (which, I discovered today, has re-opened across the street), none of which is in any way relevant, except that this might become a regular Friday night event.
We arrived at the Temple at 7:00, about 20 minutes early. A nice young man in the parking lot told us that people were free to enter and sit quietly, so we did, leaving our shoes outside the door, along with three or four other pairs. The floor, which earlier in the week had been bare, was laid out with mats and cushions and book cradles. There are also padded benches along the outer walls. A man lifted one of the bench tops and took out an extra cushion. Mike and I selected places and, while Mike helped himself to a second cushion, I maneuvered my way down to a seated position and crossed my legs.
People began arriving in ones and twos and taking places; some paused to bow to the Buddha, others just sat. They were a very diverse group in every way -- age, race, sex, weight. A few looked like "typical" Buddhists -- tall, thin, in flowing clothing or yoga pants, who sat in the lotus position -- but most, well, did not. Most sat on cushions, quite a few of them sinking gracefully and crossing their legs without difficulty, but a handful sat on the benches.
A young man in a brown robe with a shaved head, who would later identify himself as "Brother Will," and a woman in a brown robe entered, bowed to the Buddha, and a few minutes later, the service began. One of the men rang the bell -- it is a very large bowl-shaped bell that is rung by striking it with a wooden ballet, and gives off a very resonant tone that reverberates through the hall; much more pleasant than I had anticipated -- and a young woman read an introduction to the service, so that newcomers would know what to expect without feeling singled out.
The abbott entered, we all rose. He offered incense to the Buddhal they went through the three prostrations. Although most of those in attendance did prostrate themselves, Mike and I were not the only two who refrained, mainly because we both doubted our ability to get back up again without help! Brother Will explained that, while meditating, we should ignore the need to scratch or move; that if we absolutely had to move, it should be done mindfully, and that any thoughts should be accepted and then let go. Shortly after, the lights were dimmed, the bell was rung, and we began our 30 minutes of meditation. The abbott chanted something in Vietnamese, which, like Gregorian chant, was more powerful for being unintelligible.
Every five minutes or so, Brother Will would softly ring the bell, and recite a chant in English to help us re-focus on our breath. Every time I would think "I can't do this," the bell would ring and I would find that I could -- until about 20 minutes into it, when I realized that I could no long feel my feet or my ankles. I could not move my toes. I began to panic; all I could think of was how essential it was that I restore circulation.
First, I used my hands to shift my feet farther from my body, which helped somewhat. I tried to re-focus, but with the restoration of blood flow, my feet had begun, first to tingle, and then ache. Then, I straightened out my left leg, and tried to re-focus, but really, at that point, all I was doing was waiting for the 30 minutes to end. I wondered what would have happened if I had just ignored it. Obviously, my feet were not going to develop gangrene in that little bit of time.
Blessedly, the time did come to an end. We were instructed to rub our hands together, then massage our face and head, then our neck and shoulders, our back, and finally out legs. Mike then went to sit on a bench along the wall; 10 minutes later, I wished I had joined him -- and we'll just start out at the wall the next time.
Brother Will then introduced himself, explained that the abbot is away on a retreat (but did not introduce the monk who was leading the service, whom I shall continue to call "the abbot") and gave the homily -- I cannot think of it as other than that. He is a monk-in-training of about 18 months and doing his best, but not the deepest thinker. He questioned us about "What makes you happy?" then expressed surprise that people said, "Family, love, friends" -- to me, the expected answers. He expected to hear "Cars, money, iPhones." So young and inexperienced. Even if that were what people thought, most would have known better than to actually say it. He sort of rambled on about the topic for 10 minutes or so, then same man who had lit the incense and run the bell to start also rambled on, reading some passages from the Buddha and the Dalai Lamah. After 20 minutes or so, I was not the only person who was restlessly shifting, and the abbot suddenly rang the bell softly, then loudly, then softly again after the sound had died away.
That served to refocus all of us; the man finished what he was saying, and the floor was opened to comments. Nothing particularly noteworthy, just people repeating the sorts of things you would expect about "happiness" -- family, nature, love. I thought about saying that, for me, happiness comes from learning and acquiring knowledge, but I didn't want to sound, well, like a prig.
Again, the abbot rang the bell, then pointed to a young Asian man and over to his right side. The young man quickly moved, picked up a microphone, and began to translate. The abbot repeated much of what had been said, but expanded on it and contextualized it within Buddhism and Dharma, in particular the difference between the happiness that comes from without and that which comes from within, and the fragility of happiness that is attached to the outer world.
It was while he was speaking that I realized that even family, love, nature provide a happiness from without; that even that happiness is fragile and short-lived; happiness that depends on anything outside of ourselves is subject to loss. Family die; they become estranged; grow-up and move on with their lives; thousands of psychiatrists, psychologists and counselors made a very good living telling women in the 1970s and later that they needed to find a life beyond their children; the empty-nest syndrome is still recognized. Even learning and knowledge can be lost to Alzheimer's or a stroke or dementia. Mindfulness means finding joy in what is now.
He then shifted tone, and asked those of us who were new to introduce ourselves; of the 50 or so people who were there, about 10 were there for the first time. Most of them were students at LSU, although one other woman was also faculty at LSU and new to Baton Rouge.
We ended with a group chant in English. The regulars quickly gathered up the cushions, mats, and book stands, while I gingerly walked over to Mike, testing whether my feet would bear me out to the car. We were greeted by a friendly ginger cat as we left the hall, who demanded pets from everyone who came out. We don't know whether it is a regular occurrence, but we rather hope so.
Are we ready to commit to this? Possibly. Certainly we want to make it a regular practice at home, and we find value in the guided meditation at this stage. We're not decided about becoming members of the community. The constant bowing to each other with hands in heart position felt awkward, but that can be overcome with time. I think we'll just take it as it comes, which is all that we're asked to do.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
It did get worse -- and now it's over
The saddest news first. We were left with no choice but to call animal control. Wraith would not let us near the kittens, and we could not leave the little ginger one with an untreated broken leg. I would have been clawed from elbow to wrist, if I hadn't been wearing a long-sleeved sweater and rose gauntlets. We sent them, cage and all, last Friday, then picked up the humane trap to capture the other two. We set it yesterday, and by the evening, both had been picked up.
Waiting for animal control was incredibly stressful for all concerned, but afterward we both felt a great sense of relief and of peace. I had to steel myself to set the trap; it felt like such a terrible betrayal to set it to lure a hungry kitten, but as sad as we feel, and as much as we wish that it could have been otherwise, we feel no guilt. There was nothing else we could do.
Now that it's over, I can talk about it and why there was no other option, given the situation. As I noted in my previous posts, every animal rescue agency in Baton Rouge requires that cats listed for adoption be socialized as indoor animals. The only other options are Trap-Neuter-Release or animal control. I've already explained why TNR was not an option in this case.
We were absolutely right in our initial feeling that it is not possible to socialize four feral kittens and a half-wild mother in our little suburban tract home. As so many websites advised, the only way to socialize them would have been to separate all five of them, and how were we to do that? Wraith had already taught her kittens to fear us; she never stopped hissing at me every time I stepped out the door, even though I was providing food. In the house, she was becoming increasingly aggressive, growling at us when we came to feed her. Isolating them from her and each other was absolutely necessary and we had no way to do that.
We also needed to completely isolate them from our cats. After they'd been in the house for 12 hours or so, Miller refused to walk past the cage. I had to carry him down the hall to the kitchen for his dinner, and then back to the bedroom. Buddy was more curious, but Wraith hissed at him -- and he hissed back -- whenever he would stop to look at them.
If we lived in the country or a rural area with a couple of acres and distant neighbors, then TNR would have been ideal. They could have continued to live as feral animals, or we could have spent the months required to earn their trust, sitting out there with them, tempting them with bits of treats. They never would have become socialized to a house, but could have become our pets. But we do not live in the country.
We discussed moving them to the backyard, but how were we to do that and how were we to keep them there? And if we were successful in it, it would mean that we would have five additional cats living in the backyard for the next 15 years. The neighbors were sure to call animal control.
Why did we even think it was possible? Because neither of us had any experience with feral kittens. They are fiercer and more aggressive than either of us had imagined, and they were terrified of us. They climbed the cage walls, and when cornered, scratch and bit. Mike's finger will be a long time healing. We might have managed with one, but no one was stepping up to take any of the other three -- and what were we to do with Wraith?
Poor Wraith. Life had not been kind to her. Was she really a desperate, feral mother cat? Was she an abused domestic cat? Was she an outdoor cat who was never truly socialized? Was she ill? Mike always said that she looked "half-mad." She was a devoted mother who was doing her best for her kittens. Whatever terrors life held for her are over now, and she passed out of life peacefully at the end. She wasn't savaged by a dog or coyote or hit by a car to die slowly in the street or ravaged by illness. I'm sure that she was distraught in animal control, separated from her kittens, but as the drugs took effect, she would have calmly slipped into a deep sleep in her last moments.
I do mourn for her and for the kittens, and wish that it could have been otherwise, but I know that we thoroughly explored every option. We were ready to care for them and to love them, but they would not allow us to. They had no experience of it and did not understand.
As with their mother, I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that the kittens had a peaceful and clean death. They were not killed or maimed by the fan blades of my car, or run over in our driveway, or savaged by that hideous dog next door or killed by a feral tom cat (of which there are many in this area) or by a coyote. They didn't starve or suffer from disease.
And if we are honest, that was the future they all faced as roaming feral cats. TNR does nothing to change that reality.
It is not what we wanted. It is not what we would have chosen, if we had a choice. But we did not. I reserve my anger for the people in Baton Rouge who refuse to sterilize their pets. It is they who put us in this untenable position.
To anyone thinking of attempting something like this, our advice is don't. Not unless you have the kind of space necessary to isolate them. Believe the many, many websites that tell you how difficult it will be. And use humane traps to capture them.
Waiting for animal control was incredibly stressful for all concerned, but afterward we both felt a great sense of relief and of peace. I had to steel myself to set the trap; it felt like such a terrible betrayal to set it to lure a hungry kitten, but as sad as we feel, and as much as we wish that it could have been otherwise, we feel no guilt. There was nothing else we could do.
Now that it's over, I can talk about it and why there was no other option, given the situation. As I noted in my previous posts, every animal rescue agency in Baton Rouge requires that cats listed for adoption be socialized as indoor animals. The only other options are Trap-Neuter-Release or animal control. I've already explained why TNR was not an option in this case.
We were absolutely right in our initial feeling that it is not possible to socialize four feral kittens and a half-wild mother in our little suburban tract home. As so many websites advised, the only way to socialize them would have been to separate all five of them, and how were we to do that? Wraith had already taught her kittens to fear us; she never stopped hissing at me every time I stepped out the door, even though I was providing food. In the house, she was becoming increasingly aggressive, growling at us when we came to feed her. Isolating them from her and each other was absolutely necessary and we had no way to do that.
We also needed to completely isolate them from our cats. After they'd been in the house for 12 hours or so, Miller refused to walk past the cage. I had to carry him down the hall to the kitchen for his dinner, and then back to the bedroom. Buddy was more curious, but Wraith hissed at him -- and he hissed back -- whenever he would stop to look at them.
If we lived in the country or a rural area with a couple of acres and distant neighbors, then TNR would have been ideal. They could have continued to live as feral animals, or we could have spent the months required to earn their trust, sitting out there with them, tempting them with bits of treats. They never would have become socialized to a house, but could have become our pets. But we do not live in the country.
We discussed moving them to the backyard, but how were we to do that and how were we to keep them there? And if we were successful in it, it would mean that we would have five additional cats living in the backyard for the next 15 years. The neighbors were sure to call animal control.
Why did we even think it was possible? Because neither of us had any experience with feral kittens. They are fiercer and more aggressive than either of us had imagined, and they were terrified of us. They climbed the cage walls, and when cornered, scratch and bit. Mike's finger will be a long time healing. We might have managed with one, but no one was stepping up to take any of the other three -- and what were we to do with Wraith?
Poor Wraith. Life had not been kind to her. Was she really a desperate, feral mother cat? Was she an abused domestic cat? Was she an outdoor cat who was never truly socialized? Was she ill? Mike always said that she looked "half-mad." She was a devoted mother who was doing her best for her kittens. Whatever terrors life held for her are over now, and she passed out of life peacefully at the end. She wasn't savaged by a dog or coyote or hit by a car to die slowly in the street or ravaged by illness. I'm sure that she was distraught in animal control, separated from her kittens, but as the drugs took effect, she would have calmly slipped into a deep sleep in her last moments.
I do mourn for her and for the kittens, and wish that it could have been otherwise, but I know that we thoroughly explored every option. We were ready to care for them and to love them, but they would not allow us to. They had no experience of it and did not understand.
As with their mother, I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that the kittens had a peaceful and clean death. They were not killed or maimed by the fan blades of my car, or run over in our driveway, or savaged by that hideous dog next door or killed by a feral tom cat (of which there are many in this area) or by a coyote. They didn't starve or suffer from disease.
And if we are honest, that was the future they all faced as roaming feral cats. TNR does nothing to change that reality.
It is not what we wanted. It is not what we would have chosen, if we had a choice. But we did not. I reserve my anger for the people in Baton Rouge who refuse to sterilize their pets. It is they who put us in this untenable position.
To anyone thinking of attempting something like this, our advice is don't. Not unless you have the kind of space necessary to isolate them. Believe the many, many websites that tell you how difficult it will be. And use humane traps to capture them.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
It could be worse, but it's bad enough as it is
We honestly don't know what we were thinking, or perhaps fantasizing is a better term. The idea that we could catch 4 nearly-feral kittens at all is, in retrospect, utterly unrealistic. And to bring kids into the mix . . .
I mentioned Wraith in a previous post. Sometime after I was in the boot, she brought her four kittens over to live in our driveway. Mike and I had no idea what to do about the situation. We could not let them starve, but we also could not let them live in our suburban driveway. At the same time, I could not drive. I contacted every animal rescue organization in Baton Rouge and got the same answer -- they are all volunteer organizations who would lend us humane traps, but we would have to come and get the traps. That, of course, was not possible, as I could not drive.
Our options were Trap-Neuter-Release (TNR) or try to socialize the kittens as indoor cats and use their venues to try to find homes for them or take them to the animal shelter to be euthanized, or simply stop feeding them and wait for them to go away.
TNR is not an option. We cannot have a cat colony living in our suburban front yard, neutered or not. They were already using the flowerbed mulch as a litter box, and the food had attracted at least one other adult cat. The kittens had taken up residence in the undercarriage of our RAV4 and our neighbor's SUV that is parked in our driveway, so we were also extremely concerned about them being killed or injured when the vehicles were started up and driven. We could not just let them starve, especially as the mother was sitting on the doorstep every morning waiting to be fed.
So, we decided on the animal shelter as at least more humane than starving them or leaving them prey to the dogs and feral toms that roam this neighborhood, but after two days, realized that we would not be able to live with ourselves if we didn't at least try to socialize them, especially as we would have to catch them anyway, using supplied traps. The betrayal felt too great. Wraith was responding well to Mike, and a couple of the kittens seemed to be slowly losing their fear of him.
Again, the animal rescue organizations were not terribly encouraging; they could even be said to be discouraging. I suppose that they want to make sure that people understand what they are getting themselves into. They emphasized the difficulties in trapping the kittens and in socializing them. They really lean toward TNR. However, not only can we not have a feral cat colony living and growing in our front yard, TNR was devised for established feral colonies with established territories. It's not effective with just a single mother and her few kittens, all of whom are accustomed to being fed by humans.
And then the neighbors started asking what we were going to do about "those cats." That put a lot of pressure on us, and may be one of the reasons that we came up with our idiotic plan. We felt that we needed to act quickly; also, the kittens were just getting older and harder to socialize. We ordered a cat playpen, set it up in the tiled entry way by the front door, and asked friends to bring their three sons over to help us catch the kittens. Another friend donated additional animal carriers. Before they arrived, Mike was able to pick the mother up and put her in a carrier. His plan was to put the kittens in with their mother as we caught them.
I can't even go into everything that went wrong, partly because I don't know. It was utter pandemonium. The kittens moved like lightning. We were fools to think that they could be caught. Two of them ran into the neighbors' yard, while the dogs, two Golden labs, were out. They ran behind some tables that were stacked against the house, so Mike was able to get the black one, but the marmalade ran out and was attacked by the older of the two dogs. I'm not sure how I was able to finally pull it off, but I was able to rescue the kitten. It has a broken leg, which we'll have to deal with soon.
Our neighbor, the one who suggested poisoning them, just sat and watched as we tried to deal with his dogs. Even when we finally got him to get up and do something, he wouldn't take the dogs into the house.
I mentioned Wraith in a previous post. Sometime after I was in the boot, she brought her four kittens over to live in our driveway. Mike and I had no idea what to do about the situation. We could not let them starve, but we also could not let them live in our suburban driveway. At the same time, I could not drive. I contacted every animal rescue organization in Baton Rouge and got the same answer -- they are all volunteer organizations who would lend us humane traps, but we would have to come and get the traps. That, of course, was not possible, as I could not drive.
Our options were Trap-Neuter-Release (TNR) or try to socialize the kittens as indoor cats and use their venues to try to find homes for them or take them to the animal shelter to be euthanized, or simply stop feeding them and wait for them to go away.
TNR is not an option. We cannot have a cat colony living in our suburban front yard, neutered or not. They were already using the flowerbed mulch as a litter box, and the food had attracted at least one other adult cat. The kittens had taken up residence in the undercarriage of our RAV4 and our neighbor's SUV that is parked in our driveway, so we were also extremely concerned about them being killed or injured when the vehicles were started up and driven. We could not just let them starve, especially as the mother was sitting on the doorstep every morning waiting to be fed.
So, we decided on the animal shelter as at least more humane than starving them or leaving them prey to the dogs and feral toms that roam this neighborhood, but after two days, realized that we would not be able to live with ourselves if we didn't at least try to socialize them, especially as we would have to catch them anyway, using supplied traps. The betrayal felt too great. Wraith was responding well to Mike, and a couple of the kittens seemed to be slowly losing their fear of him.
Again, the animal rescue organizations were not terribly encouraging; they could even be said to be discouraging. I suppose that they want to make sure that people understand what they are getting themselves into. They emphasized the difficulties in trapping the kittens and in socializing them. They really lean toward TNR. However, not only can we not have a feral cat colony living and growing in our front yard, TNR was devised for established feral colonies with established territories. It's not effective with just a single mother and her few kittens, all of whom are accustomed to being fed by humans.
And then the neighbors started asking what we were going to do about "those cats." That put a lot of pressure on us, and may be one of the reasons that we came up with our idiotic plan. We felt that we needed to act quickly; also, the kittens were just getting older and harder to socialize. We ordered a cat playpen, set it up in the tiled entry way by the front door, and asked friends to bring their three sons over to help us catch the kittens. Another friend donated additional animal carriers. Before they arrived, Mike was able to pick the mother up and put her in a carrier. His plan was to put the kittens in with their mother as we caught them.
I can't even go into everything that went wrong, partly because I don't know. It was utter pandemonium. The kittens moved like lightning. We were fools to think that they could be caught. Two of them ran into the neighbors' yard, while the dogs, two Golden labs, were out. They ran behind some tables that were stacked against the house, so Mike was able to get the black one, but the marmalade ran out and was attacked by the older of the two dogs. I'm not sure how I was able to finally pull it off, but I was able to rescue the kitten. It has a broken leg, which we'll have to deal with soon.
Our neighbor, the one who suggested poisoning them, just sat and watched as we tried to deal with his dogs. Even when we finally got him to get up and do something, he wouldn't take the dogs into the house.
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