And, of course, it's Spring break, so there's time to focus on something longer than a few lines on Facebook.
Spring -- the time of renewal, of rebirth, of snakes in the house. Yep, Buddy has brought his first snake of the season in the house. And it was a big 'un. Mike and I were in the "den" -- one of our two small front bedrooms -- and heard Buddy give his little call that means "Come see what I caught!" I assumed it was a lizard and didn't come rushing. He gave it again, which is unusual, so I looked around the door, and there was an 18-inch long garter snake slithering down the hall toward me.
I shouted, "He's brought in a snake and it's a big one!" and closed the door. As soon as I'd done it, I realized that made no sense on two fronts -- one, the snake could easily slide under the door and two, we would have to leave the room sometime, and the snake would still be out there. Mike, of course, is panicking, shrieking like a girl. So, I take a deep breath and open the door.
"Damn, it's gone under the couch." Buddy was between the back of the couch and the wall, clearly looking for the snake.
"We'll have to call someone!" I didn't realize that Mike could hit those high notes.
"Why? It's just a garter snake."
"Oh -- I thought you said it was a big one. I thought you meant it was a water moccasin or a copperhead." OK -- my fault. I know he's got a real phobia.
"No. Not that big. Just a bigger one than he usually brings in." Generally, he catches the juveniles, the ones that aren't much bigger around than a pencil. This one looked full-grown. I think it's the one I saw in the front yard last week.
By this time, Buddy has caught the snake and brought it back out to show us. I run into the kitchen, grab the tongs (the long ones with the rubberized ends), come back, successfully grasp the snake and play a little tug-of war with Buddy, then head outside at top speed and fling it across the back (chain link) fence.
And then come back in to find poor little Bud-boo hunting for his prize. Life just isn't fair sometimes, I tell him.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
Sunday, November 16, 2014
Soup Season!
Autumn really is my favorite time of year. The intolerable heat and humidity of the summer are finally over; the stores are filled with clothes in "my" colors; the cool, rainy days give me every excuse to sit, curled up with a book and a cup of tea; and I can make the soups my soul craves. Warming, filling, and satisfying -- and the leftovers are even better. Sadly, I married a man who has no appreciation for such homey dishes . . .
One of my favorites is my take on a Pennsylvania Dutch corn and cabbage chowder. It is a good, basic recipe that allows for almost endless variations. You can replace the dill and tarragon with dried thyme -- or with 1 1/2 tsps of your favorite dried herb(s). If you want to use fresh, add them with the corn at the end. Fresh herbs don't take long cooking.
You can make it all vegetarian, or add diced cooked chicken. You can substitute or add different root vegetables -- parsnips, turnips, rutabagas, etc. I'd probably avoid red beets, but golden ones might be nice.
2 tablespoons oil (or the fat from a couple of slices of bacon -- reserve bacon to add at the end)
1 medium onion, diced
2 medium carrots, diced
2 stalks celery, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 tbs flour (optional -- for thickening if desired)
1 quart stock (vegetable or chicken)
4 cups diced potato
4 cups finely shredded green cabbage (about 1/4 a head -- opt)
1 cup chopped tomatoes (equivalent of canned) or 8 oz. tomato sauce (optional)
3/4 tsp dried dill
3/4 tsp dried tarragon
1 quart milk (approximately) -- or 1/2 and 1/2, or 1/2 milk and 1/2 cream
1 tablespoon seasoned salt (or 1 1/2 tsp salt)
1 teaspoon pepper
3 cups frozen corn (or equivalent fresh) or 16 oz. can corn
1/4 c. chopped parsley
Saute onion, carrot, and celery in oil with 1/2 tsp. salt until tender. Add garlic; saute 1 minute. Add stock, potato, cabbage and tomato; bring to boil. Add herbs. Reduce heat. Cover and simmer until potatoes are tender but not mushy, about 15 minutes. Add enough milk to achieve desired consistency, and remaining ingredients. Heat through, but do not boil.
One of my favorites is my take on a Pennsylvania Dutch corn and cabbage chowder. It is a good, basic recipe that allows for almost endless variations. You can replace the dill and tarragon with dried thyme -- or with 1 1/2 tsps of your favorite dried herb(s). If you want to use fresh, add them with the corn at the end. Fresh herbs don't take long cooking.
You can make it all vegetarian, or add diced cooked chicken. You can substitute or add different root vegetables -- parsnips, turnips, rutabagas, etc. I'd probably avoid red beets, but golden ones might be nice.
2 tablespoons oil (or the fat from a couple of slices of bacon -- reserve bacon to add at the end)
1 medium onion, diced
2 medium carrots, diced
2 stalks celery, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 tbs flour (optional -- for thickening if desired)
1 quart stock (vegetable or chicken)
4 cups diced potato
4 cups finely shredded green cabbage (about 1/4 a head -- opt)
1 cup chopped tomatoes (equivalent of canned) or 8 oz. tomato sauce (optional)
3/4 tsp dried dill
3/4 tsp dried tarragon
1 quart milk (approximately) -- or 1/2 and 1/2, or 1/2 milk and 1/2 cream
1 tablespoon seasoned salt (or 1 1/2 tsp salt)
1 teaspoon pepper
3 cups frozen corn (or equivalent fresh) or 16 oz. can corn
1/4 c. chopped parsley
Saute onion, carrot, and celery in oil with 1/2 tsp. salt until tender. Add garlic; saute 1 minute. Add stock, potato, cabbage and tomato; bring to boil. Add herbs. Reduce heat. Cover and simmer until potatoes are tender but not mushy, about 15 minutes. Add enough milk to achieve desired consistency, and remaining ingredients. Heat through, but do not boil.
Saturday, April 5, 2014
Another fine dish
Now that warmer weather is threatening -- and in Louisiana, summer is the season we all dread -- my thoughts are turning toward lighter, cooler fare. Vegetables are starting to come down in price at the local produce stand and they look fresher and more appealing, with the result that last week I came home with an eggplant, a couple of zucchini, a summer squash, some bell peppers and some grape tomatoes. Mike did vegetable kabobs one night, so I found myself with half an eggplant, a zucchini, and a partial summer squash. At first, I thought of the obvious -- ratatouille -- but that's such a cool-weather dish. And then I remembered this variation on it that I haven't made in years. It's a sort of ratatouille-pasta salad, made with slow-roasted vegetables and cheese tortellini, but you could use any filled pasta or penne or ziti or something similar.
Cut the eggplant, squash and bell peppers into 1-inch cubes. Add a sliced red onion (I used up the white one in the fridge, and it worked fine) and some whole or halved cloves of garlic (if you want). Halve some plum tomatoes or do what I did and toss in the grape tomatoes that are about to go off. I also like to add some good Italian or Greek olives (or both). Toss all in a large bowl with a good balsamic vinaigrette (I made one in the bottom of the bowl with 2/3 cup olive oil, 1/3 cup balsamic, some Dijon mustard, fresh rosemary, thyme, and marjoram, salt, and pepper, but you can use your favorite recipe or store brand; just use enough to coat everything. The only caveat is that it cannot be non-fat. Low-fat, yes, but non-fat, no. There must be some oil so that everything doesn't dry out in the oven). Marinate at room-temp for about 15 minutes.
Scoop the veggies out of the vinaigrette with a slotted spoon into a roasting pan, ideally in a single layer. Leave the vinaigrette in the bowl. Broil or slow-roast until the eggplant is meltingly soft, depending on how much time you have. If the eggplant is done, the other vegetables will be. Stir occasionally as necessary, if there's more than one layer.
Cook and drain the pasta just before the veggies are done -- you want it to be warm when you put it all together.
When the vegetables are done, warm the vinaigrette in the bowl in the microwave (or pour it into a saucepan and heat). Add the pasta and toss; then add the still-hot vegetables and any pan juices.
Serve warm -- not hot, just warmer than room temperature. It really has to be warm or it's pretty revolting (strange but true). Warm leftovers in the microwave.
You could sprinkle with parmesan or feta cheese, add raw baby spinach to the pasta and vegetables, I suppose you could even add cooked frozen spinach. Asparagus would be good, too, roasted with the other vegetables. Just keep that Mediterranean flavor profile in mind.
We'll be eating this again when our tomatoes, eggplant, and peppers start to come on. I'll still be buying the squash -- I have given up trying to fight the squash-vine borer.
Cut the eggplant, squash and bell peppers into 1-inch cubes. Add a sliced red onion (I used up the white one in the fridge, and it worked fine) and some whole or halved cloves of garlic (if you want). Halve some plum tomatoes or do what I did and toss in the grape tomatoes that are about to go off. I also like to add some good Italian or Greek olives (or both). Toss all in a large bowl with a good balsamic vinaigrette (I made one in the bottom of the bowl with 2/3 cup olive oil, 1/3 cup balsamic, some Dijon mustard, fresh rosemary, thyme, and marjoram, salt, and pepper, but you can use your favorite recipe or store brand; just use enough to coat everything. The only caveat is that it cannot be non-fat. Low-fat, yes, but non-fat, no. There must be some oil so that everything doesn't dry out in the oven). Marinate at room-temp for about 15 minutes.
Scoop the veggies out of the vinaigrette with a slotted spoon into a roasting pan, ideally in a single layer. Leave the vinaigrette in the bowl. Broil or slow-roast until the eggplant is meltingly soft, depending on how much time you have. If the eggplant is done, the other vegetables will be. Stir occasionally as necessary, if there's more than one layer.
Cook and drain the pasta just before the veggies are done -- you want it to be warm when you put it all together.
When the vegetables are done, warm the vinaigrette in the bowl in the microwave (or pour it into a saucepan and heat). Add the pasta and toss; then add the still-hot vegetables and any pan juices.
Serve warm -- not hot, just warmer than room temperature. It really has to be warm or it's pretty revolting (strange but true). Warm leftovers in the microwave.
You could sprinkle with parmesan or feta cheese, add raw baby spinach to the pasta and vegetables, I suppose you could even add cooked frozen spinach. Asparagus would be good, too, roasted with the other vegetables. Just keep that Mediterranean flavor profile in mind.
We'll be eating this again when our tomatoes, eggplant, and peppers start to come on. I'll still be buying the squash -- I have given up trying to fight the squash-vine borer.
Saturday, March 22, 2014
Amazingly good brussels sprouts slaw
A week ago or so, Mike decided to do some basic barbecue chicken wings with "barbecue grill fries." He, of course, would be perfectly happy with that and a beer, but I felt duty-bound to come up with something that had some kind of nutritional value. At the same time, I wanted something that would fit the All-American barbecue theme he had going. It didn't take me long to arrive at coleslaw as an appropriate side dish -- but I lacked the necessary cabbage. And that's when I remembered that we had (and still have) a bag of brussels sprouts purchased at Sam's club (and therefore more than we could possibly eat before they go bad -- what WAS I thinking?) recently. Brussels sprouts are just little cabbages, after all, so why not a brussels sprouts slaw?
A search of the Internet turned up half-a dozen different recipes, both cold and hot/warm. I selected a basic recipe and modified it with bits from other recipes, put it together in no time, left it to marinate in the refrigerator, and surprised Mike with it when he announced that dinner was served. I felt pretty confident that he wouldn't hate it because, strangely enough, he quite likes cabbage. We finished it off, and like it so much that I made it again yesterday to have with some Trader Joe's fish and chips.
So, what's the recipe? Simple enough. For the two of us, I thinly sliced a dozen brussels sprouts. Then I added a thinly sliced shallot, but onion or scallions would probably work; just something in the allium family, although garlic might be a bit too strong. In the bottom of the mixing bowl (I used a Pyrex storage bowl that has a lid -- no reason to wash more dishes than necessary), I whisked together the juice of half a lemon, a tablespoon or so of olive oil, and about half a teaspoon of Dijon mustard (essential!), then added some salt and pepper. I added the sliced sprouts and shallot to the dressing, along with a tablespoon or so of dried cranberries (or raisins) and a handful of broken walnuts (or maybe almonds or pine nuts or even pecans). Toss well, then add some grated Parmesan or Romano cheese and toss again. Taste and correct seasoning. Let marinate in refrigerator for an hour or so.
Amazingly good. Really. Quick. Easy. Tasty Healthy.
A search of the Internet turned up half-a dozen different recipes, both cold and hot/warm. I selected a basic recipe and modified it with bits from other recipes, put it together in no time, left it to marinate in the refrigerator, and surprised Mike with it when he announced that dinner was served. I felt pretty confident that he wouldn't hate it because, strangely enough, he quite likes cabbage. We finished it off, and like it so much that I made it again yesterday to have with some Trader Joe's fish and chips.
So, what's the recipe? Simple enough. For the two of us, I thinly sliced a dozen brussels sprouts. Then I added a thinly sliced shallot, but onion or scallions would probably work; just something in the allium family, although garlic might be a bit too strong. In the bottom of the mixing bowl (I used a Pyrex storage bowl that has a lid -- no reason to wash more dishes than necessary), I whisked together the juice of half a lemon, a tablespoon or so of olive oil, and about half a teaspoon of Dijon mustard (essential!), then added some salt and pepper. I added the sliced sprouts and shallot to the dressing, along with a tablespoon or so of dried cranberries (or raisins) and a handful of broken walnuts (or maybe almonds or pine nuts or even pecans). Toss well, then add some grated Parmesan or Romano cheese and toss again. Taste and correct seasoning. Let marinate in refrigerator for an hour or so.
Amazingly good. Really. Quick. Easy. Tasty Healthy.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Reading budget hotel reviews
So, I just got back from a two-week research road trip and have been finalizing our Great Smokey Mountains NP trip at the end of the month, which means I've been reading budget and mid-priced hotel reviews for several months on Trip Advisor.
And what I want to know is who is this hairy guy who is running around multiple states shedding all over the beds and showers? It is a given that at least one reviewer will exclaim "Gross!" in the subject line, and then proceed to detail her (always a woman) horror story of pulling back the sheets to find them covered (covered!!) in curly black hairs. After housekeeping or the manager or desk clerk comes running with clean sheets just removed from the dryer -- on occasion, the guest is invited to the laundry to watch as the sheets are, in fact, removed from the dryer -- our guest is finally able to slip between the sheets and nod off to slumber land.
Only to be doubly disgusted the next morning when, on pulling back the shower curtain, she discovers the walls and floor of the shower to be covered (covered!!) with curly black hairs. In most cases, she pulls herself together and manages to clean the stall or tub and then herself.
As traumatizing as the event is, she always manages to force herself to at least sample the complementary breakfast, as evidenced by her detailed criticism of each and every offering.
All of which leaves me with multiple questions. The sheets I can understand -- sort of -- but if he's shed all of the sheets, how does he have any hair left to shed in the shower? And how does he manage to get it all over the walls, as well as the floor? Maybe I don't want to know that.
And why does he visit each hotel only once? It's only ever one guest out of 80 or 90 or 100 who is cursed to be given a room right after this man has stayed in it. And why have we been so favored of fortune as to never, ever have found ourselves in that situation?
He really should be easy to find. Just follow the trail of curly black hairs that he must be leaving behind him. Why do I never read of a restaurant patron pulling out a chair and finding it covered with curly black hairs? Or beginning to slide into a booth, only to be repulsed by its furry covering?
To say nothing of what the walls and floors of the mens' rooms he uses must look like. Forget the search for Sasquatch. The Hunt for the Hotel Shedder should be our next great adventure.
And what I want to know is who is this hairy guy who is running around multiple states shedding all over the beds and showers? It is a given that at least one reviewer will exclaim "Gross!" in the subject line, and then proceed to detail her (always a woman) horror story of pulling back the sheets to find them covered (covered!!) in curly black hairs. After housekeeping or the manager or desk clerk comes running with clean sheets just removed from the dryer -- on occasion, the guest is invited to the laundry to watch as the sheets are, in fact, removed from the dryer -- our guest is finally able to slip between the sheets and nod off to slumber land.
Only to be doubly disgusted the next morning when, on pulling back the shower curtain, she discovers the walls and floor of the shower to be covered (covered!!) with curly black hairs. In most cases, she pulls herself together and manages to clean the stall or tub and then herself.
As traumatizing as the event is, she always manages to force herself to at least sample the complementary breakfast, as evidenced by her detailed criticism of each and every offering.
All of which leaves me with multiple questions. The sheets I can understand -- sort of -- but if he's shed all of the sheets, how does he have any hair left to shed in the shower? And how does he manage to get it all over the walls, as well as the floor? Maybe I don't want to know that.
And why does he visit each hotel only once? It's only ever one guest out of 80 or 90 or 100 who is cursed to be given a room right after this man has stayed in it. And why have we been so favored of fortune as to never, ever have found ourselves in that situation?
He really should be easy to find. Just follow the trail of curly black hairs that he must be leaving behind him. Why do I never read of a restaurant patron pulling out a chair and finding it covered with curly black hairs? Or beginning to slide into a booth, only to be repulsed by its furry covering?
To say nothing of what the walls and floors of the mens' rooms he uses must look like. Forget the search for Sasquatch. The Hunt for the Hotel Shedder should be our next great adventure.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
So, how did I come to this juncture?
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)