Six Senses #55

Taste:
• Lightly browned strawberry banana pancakes
• Sweet caramelized tofu with crunchy Brussels sprouts and toasted pecans
• Homemade sesame cookies with local ginger ice cream
• Grilled tofu pups with sweet relish and Vidalia onions. Tofu pups are nowhere near as good as the real thing.

Smell:
• Sweet little Pinks in bloom
• Pungent wood smoke in an increasing night breeze
• Spicy fresh arugula, the first harvest from the garden

See:
• The green wings of a giant Luna moth fluttering in orbit around the yellow cabin light
• A barred owl diving in front of the car, then rising on powerful wings that carried him swiftly away into the dark
• The diffused glow of the full flower moon behind a light curtain of high clouds
• The spellbinding glow of stained glass windows at sunset

Feel:
• When chanting with a group there are moments when my entire emotional state goes into a blender with everyone else's emotional state and gets whirled around. What comes out can be quite the odd mix.
• I was shocked to walk to into the Snatum Kaur/Guru Singh concert Sunday night and see open seats in the very front row that I kept waiting for someone to come and kick us out. They didn't. Feeling shocked turned to feeling grateful.
• Being home for 6 gorgeous days with no obligations or errands to run — that's the kind of relaxed reality I could get very used to. "I thought it was boring?" J teased me. "I'm starting to like boring."

Touch:
• I have dirt under my fingernails, poison ivy on my knees, horse fly bites on my shoulders, a stripe of sunburn on my lower back, and the bottom of my feet are cut from hiking barefoot through the woods. And I feel fantastic.
• Bottom of my feet pressed against the plaster walls of the yoga studio as I try to become a human L bracket
• Peony petals, silky smooth against rough gardening fingers
• Gathering up armfuls of fluffy dry grass clippings

Hear:
• The tinkling of a piano inside a dimly lit barn
• A cat-like cry in the dark woods beyond our campfire
• Last week's storm approaching the house like a train hurtling towards us through the woods
• The roar of a borrowed lawnmower, finally the flower beds can rise up from a subdued green lawn

Mul Mantra - Snatam Kaur

Tonight we're off to see Snatam Kaur and Guru Ganesh Singh in Northampton! Kitzie Stern, creator of the wonderful podcast New World Kirtan, had a show dedicated to Snatam in March, which you can listen to (and download) here. I bought my tickets to tonight's show as soon as I began listening to her description of the evening.

Herding Poppies

The poppies came with the house a decade ago — one of the few flowers that did. Of course I didn't like where they were planted, in one of the otherwise weed-filled terraced gardens in the back yard, so I dug them out and gave them their own round bed in the middle of the lawn. They grew there happily, but they also kept growing in the terraced area I thought I'd dug them out of. So I had two beds of poppies.

A few years later I started to grow tired of mowing around the round, random poppy bed, so I dug them up and moved them to the edge of the vegetable garden fence.

Where they grew happily — along with the poppies in the terraced bed and the poppies in the random round bed. Three beds of poppies.

Poppies really do bloom where they're planted (and replanted, and replanted). When I want to make more of them I just reach for the shovel and start to dig.

First Bloom

Photographing the first peony flower of the year reminds me of both why I take photos and why I garden. And why I love these stolen days when I can be home "doing nothing."

The Relocation of Crazy Mouse

What'd I tell you about the trap and the new little pink nose? It took two nights to lure this little guy we took to calling "Crazy Mouse" into the Ketch-All.

I can't believe I never thought to stick my camera up against the holes in the trap before this — see what kind of opportunities you miss when you have to go rushing off to work all the time? It's a tragedy, I'm telling you.

Crazy Mouse is a wood mouse, also called a long-tailed field mouse, and his tail is indeed almost as long as the cord on my point-and-shoot camera. According to Wikipedia, if a wood mouse is caught by its tail, it can quickly shed the end of it, which may never regrow. As much as I like cold hard proof, I'll take Wikipedia's word for it on this particular matter.

Multi-tasking on my day off — hiking with the dog, carrying the trap so I can relocate the mouse, chanting japa the whole way, and taking photos. Did I mention I also have a big pot of vegetable stock simmering on the stove?

Crazy Mouse is somewhat reluctant at first.

Wood mice and I have a few things in common (besides our love of seeds) — rather than hibernate, we both fall into a torpor during the winter months (though my state is actually more of a stupor). Also, while foraging, wood mice pick up and distribute visually conspicuous objects, such as leaves and twigs, which they then use as landmarks during exploration. I have to use this technique as well, or else I'd never find my way back home.

Check out that tail!

Good luck, Crazy Mouse!

Because it was a long, cold winter.

I took a vacation day today so I could enjoy the heat and visit the bustling Wednesday afternoon farmer's market in a nearby town. I bought myself a handmade goat cheese and chocolate truffle to eat while filling my arms with crinkling plastic pots: tomatillos, tomatoes, hot peppers, lemon grass, geraniums. I unfurled my yoga mat in the yard and did lazy sun salutations while our resident Baltimore Oriole sang and plucked unripe berries from the Honeysuckle. For dinner we ate pizza and popped open cold cans of Summer Shandy by a lake where families swam noisily. At dusk, wrapped up against the onslaught of mosquitoes in a cool white sheet, I had a view of the moon rise from our hammock between the birches — white birch, white sheet, white moon.
I just let the cat in, but he has no more insight than I about where the mouse that just ran across the living room floor may have disappeared to. His energy right now is for rolling on the rug and stretching, his focus on receiving as much love as possible.

My guess is the have-a-heart trap will have a small new nose poking out of it by morning.

Walking After Work

Six Senses Sunday #54

See:
• Tiny wrens constructing nests inside the wooden birdhouses that overlook the vegetable garden, taking time between branch-laden flights to sing from their new rooftops
• An agitated male turkey with a long, hairy black beard. I didn't know turkeys had beards, did you?
• A summer-like haze over the sun and moon, a single firefly flashing by the mailbox
• The waxy petals and dangling roots of orchids, hundreds of them — photos coming!

Hear:
• The inspiring women of Gaia Roots drumming and singing at the Hilltown Spring Festival
• Unfamiliar mewing from the night garden, which a flashlight out the window revealed to be our own little cat, staring back in at us
• June bugs throwing themselves against storm windows
• Twenty motorcycles at a time passing by the house, the coffee in my mug quivering

Taste:
• Bowls of red lentil Dal
• Eggplant Parmesan on a crisp toasted roll
• Dark chocolate dotted with hot chilies
• Warm rhubarb pie with a flaky, buttery crust

Touch:
• Tugging apart the knotted roots of Hosta and iris, and the feeling of satisfaction when they separate without breaking
• First I blamed yoga, then I blamed the gym, but the chronic pain I've had in my shoulder for over a year now is quite obviously from my commute-and-desk-job sitting. Luckily weekends bring relief.
• The damp chill of walking barefoot through the yard at dusk

Feel:
• On Saturday morning I wake up with the number "838" in my head and wonder about it all day. I can't help but notice that 8+3=11 and 8+3+8=19 (11/19 being the date my mom died), but I don't know whether to chalk that up to mere coincidence or...? I don't really believe anything is coincidence, as you've probably surmised by now.
• Excitement and relief - our friends are moving back to their cabin, barn, and pastures across the hill, sans a beautiful family house and some wooded acreage that has to be sold. Summer bonfires will ensue.
• Renewed zeal for getting my hands dirty in the neglected perennial beds

Smell:
• The morels we found last week are dry and shrunken, smelling earthy, but only if you make an effort to sniff them
• Fingers brushing up against fresh thyme, rosemary, lavender in the garden
• Sadie and Vixen have cooled off in the cow field pond...

In the Garden

Spring in the garden: peas, lettuce, arugula, spinach. Hens & Chicks playing with the Sweet Woodruff, volunteer Foxgloves sprouting from every nook & cranny. It's going to be a good year for the Foxgloves — they're everywhere.

As were invasive Japanese Spireas...but not anymore. A good portion of my afternoon was spent hacking and wrangling these badly behaved shrubs out of the beds. I don't dare dispose of them in the brush pile, so I'm going to try wrapping them in this tarp and leaving them in the sun until they're completely dry. I'm sure I haven't seen the last of them in the beds (and I need to inspect the rest of the yard today) but hopefully this will at least slow them down a bit.

Sigh.

Why are garden centers allowed to sell plants like this at all? How about a warning label, at the very least?

Meanwhile, the lawnmower won't start and it will take 3 weeks to have it repaired. The dandelions are throwing a party, and the property has a bit of a spooky abandoned look going on. By three weeks we'll be lost in the grass. But, at least it's not winter. I'll take 3 feet of green grass over 3 feet of cold snow anytime.

Update: I just took a little walk and the field (where we're letting it grow up between our property and the neighbors) is full of Spirea. It's been growing there for years (before I introduced my evil shrub) but now I see that it's battling with the native blueberries and strawberries that are also filling in that field. We thought it was harmless native, so never thought to do anything about it. What to do now? There's no tarp big enough. I wonder if hacking it all down would be enough?

TGIF

Yum. The sun is shining and I have the day off, all to myself. Time to catch up on what I consider good living — being outside in the fresh air, moving my limbs, using my hands, thoughtfully preparing good food to eat. Today I'm going to attack the garden in a way it hasn't been attacked in years (insert sound of cracking whip here). Unruliness in the perennial beds is charming to a certain degree, but at a certain point it just becomes a mess, plain and simple. Time to divide and conquer, so to speak.

The horticultural chaos does remind me of a poem, however...

In Defense of Our Overgrown Garden
by Matthea Harvey

Last night the apple trees shook and gave each lettuce a heart

Six hard red apples broke through the greenhouse glass and

Landed in the middle of those ever-so-slightly green leaves

That seem no mix of seeds and soil but of pastels and light and

Chalk x’s mark our oaks that are supposed to be cut down

I’ve seen the neighbors frown when they look over the fence

And see our espalier pear trees bowing out of shape I did like that

They looked like candelabras against the wall but what’s the sense

In swooning over pruning I said as much to Mrs. Jones and I swear

She threw her cane at me and walked off down the street without

It has always puzzled me that people coo over bonsai trees when

You can squint your eyes and shrink anything without much of

A struggle ensued with some starlings and the strawberry nets

So after untangling the two I took the nets off and watched birds

With red beaks fly by all morning at the window I reread your letter

About how the castles you flew over made crenellated shadows on

The water in the rainbarrel has overflowed and made a small swamp

I think the potatoes might turn out slightly damp don’t worry

If there is no fog on the day you come home I will build a bonfire

So the smoke will make the cedars look the way you like them

To close I’m sorry there won’t be any salad and I love you

I'm also going to attempt making Spicy Banh Mi for the first time tonight, and maybe some of this on the side...

Shaved Asparagus and Potato Salad with Egg
Serves 8 as appetizer or 4 to 6 as an entrée

2 tablespoons garlic
½ onion, diced small
1 teaspoon extra virgin olive oil
1 bunch asparagus, sliced very thinly on a diagonal
¼ pound smoked tofu, diced small
1 pound new potatoes, boiled, cooled, and diced medium
Salt and pepper
4-to-8 eggs
Truffle salt or truffle oil (optional)

Sauté the garlic and onion in olive oil until translucent. Add the sliced asparagus and tofu and sauté until the asparagus starts to wilt slightly. Add the potatoes and sauté until reheated. Season with salt and pepper and remove from heat. In a separate pan, fry the eggs sunny side up or over easy, according to your preference. To serve, place the asparagus and potato mixture on individual plates and top each with an egg. Drizzle lightly with truffle salt or truffle oil for extra flavor.

To serve this dish cold, omit the onion and garlic, blanch the asparagus (immerse briefly in boiling water then move it directly into cold water) and cut very thinly on a diagonal when cool. Toss the asparagus with the olive oil, tofu, and potatoes, and add a splash of sherry vinegar. Season with salt and pepper. Hard boil the eggs. When the eggs are cool, peel them and cut them in half longwise. To serve, put the asparagus and potato mixture on individual plates and top each with a hard boiled egg. Drizzle lightly with truffle salt or truffle oil for extra flavor.

And who knows, if I'm motivated enough this weekend I may harvest more rhubarb stalks and make Rhubarb and Ginger Brioche Bread Pudding, a recipe I drooled over while in the waiting room at the dentist's office last Friday morning. You're allowed to drool all you want in the dentist's office, right?

What are you planning for the weekend?

Improv Everywhere Strikes Again

I can't believe they were able to get away with this at the NY Public Library, but Improv Everywhere has struck again, and people looked pretty entertained. Apparently when the security guard asked the guy in the sheet what he was doing he answered, "Um, haunting the library."
Too funny.

The Long Road

Six months ago today my mom died. And six months ago today I gave birth to myself so I wouldn't die with her. There was no choice in the matter, really. It was the premise I started this blog with years ago, knowing the time was coming when I would need to find my own way as never before. I had no idea what that meant at the time, but now I know that it goes a lot deeper than simply not being able to call her for advice.

Ironically, there was a service being held tonight at the hospice she spent her last week in — for those who have died there this year. It's two hours away from me, so I won't be going — nor do I wish to return there, to be honest. It was a wonderful place, the best possible situation under the circumstances, but I don't want to smell its smells, or feel the cold handle of the door in my hand, or ride in the bright elevator, or walk down the hushed, carpeted hallways, or see the rose bushes budding alongside the parking lot. Memories of seeing her there are hard enough to keep at bay, and very difficult to deal with when they do sneak in.

I remember wondering when I started relying on the chant cds to keep my commute breakdown free (not the car, but me) "How long is this going to work for? Is this just a bandage or is it a healing salve?" It worried me, the thought of boredom setting in, the thought that the ability of the chants to calm me would fade. And yet, 6 months later, the practice still works. So I don't question, I just keep going with it. My Sunday night kirtan-wallah often reminds us that he's been doing the same chants for 40 years and isn't tired of them yet. He says they continue to peel layers from his heart, like an onion.

My heart is onion-like in that it still causes me to cry when I talk about my mom, or when I hear some sappy sad song, or when I see a kind-looking older woman on the sidewalk. At the six month mark I can see that grief is a long road, no matter what song you choose to sing while navigating it.

Remembrance

Here's a great high definition video from the day long retreat in Montague (click the four little arrows to make it full screen with wonderful resolution).

I'm just starting to teach myself the Chalisa in 10-15 line increments — it's kind of slow going, but I find there's a simple pleasure in singing in another language (in this case Awadhi, an root variety of Hindi spoken in Northern India). The first time I sat down with both the words and my iPod I could kind of bleat along to maybe one or two syllables per line. So it sounded something like, "ra-ja! (long pause) bi-masu! (long pause) mo-hin! (long pause) namaa!" J came down from his studio to see if I was crying, if that's any indication of my success. "I'm singing" I think I responded with a huff. Now the first 10 lines are almost second nature, and it's back to the bleating for the next 10 and the 10 after that...I imagine it will take all summer to memorize it. The Chalisa is the poet Tulsida's beautiful hymn expounding the rewards of pure devotion, in this case the devotion of the deity Hanuman to the god Ram. Though it dates back to the 16th century, many modern-day Hindus recite it every Tuesday and Saturday.

According to Wikipedia, specialised forms of rote learning (a learning technique which focuses not on understanding but on memorization by means of repetition) have been used in Vedic chant since as long as three thousand years ago, to preserve the intonation and lexical accuracy of very long texts, some with tens of thousands of verses. I don't know if this is typical of memorization in general, but I find the harder I try to grasp the next line, the more likely it is to slip away (imagine trying to grab at a fish underwater). By simply keeping my mind open and relatively thought-free, the words flow in naturally. Thus, the memorization process becomes a type of meditation practice.

This isn't the first memorization project I've taken on. Growing up Catholic I was certainly required to memorize all parts of the mass as well as many songs and prayers. Since I started that practice as a child it came naturally over the course of time and I didn't have to struggle or think twice about it. But prayers and the Chalisa are worlds away from some of my other memorization endeavors, which include the entire second act of Sweeney Todd - The Musical, the short poem Invictus, and the words to both Eminem's The Real Slim Shady and Biggie's Gimme the Loot. In case you've just choked on your afternoon latte, yes, it's beyond ridiculous, the sound of sweet, soft-spoken me rapping these violent, sexist, obscenity-laden lyrics. If I took a video of myself doing so it would probably become an overnight internet sensation for its sheer ironic stupidity, and all I can say is that apparently the taboos against swearing that I grew up with are going to make it oddly titillating for the rest of my life. No, I have no future in rap, though in writing this I realize that the ability to free-style rap is another exercise in keeping one's mind focused but open to the flow of words. I would think.

On a kinder, gentler note I also memorized the lyrics to Joni Mitchell's long, poetic Song for Sharon...

I went to Staten Island
To buy myself a mandolin
And I saw the long white dress of love
On a storefront mannequin
Big boat chuggin' back with a belly full of cars...
All for something lacy
Some girl's going to see that dress
And crave that day like crazy...

Yet all of these are small feats compared to the story I heard on NPR this morning - retired teacher John Basinger has taught himself to recite all 12 books of Paradise Lost— by heart.

Yikes!

Outside of school, what have you chosen (or been required) to memorize in your life?

The Mushroom Fairy has Come.

J just found two Morels. In our yard.

Yes, I'm serious. I've never even seen one before. And now here they are, practically knocking on the door. Both had fallen over already (I think the dog mowed them down earlier while running for her frisbee), or else we probably would have left them standing.

I've just spent the past 30 minutes looking at every Morel identification page on the internet. Regardless, I'm very wary about the thoughts of eating them — obviously they're the real deal, but what if I'm randomly allergic? And what's the proper/ most simple way to prepare them?

Regardless of whether we eat them or not, for someone who loves unusual mushrooms as much as I do this discovery is akin to finding a nugget of gold in a puddle.

Blues, Didgeridoos, and Passing Time

Mama mama many worlds I've come, since I first left home.
— Grateful Dead

I came home from a great day in Northampton yesterday to see I had just surpassed the 100 followers mark. Followers tend to come and go for a variety of reasons, but still, I considered this to be a milestone for the blog. This week's post about my klutziness (and all of your comments) reminded me of how thankful I am for this community, because a year ago the first person I would have told about that public slide to the floor was my mom. She would have been concerned at first, but then had a good laugh. As both blogging and life proves, things are better when shared — grief, hope, joy, new discoveries, questions, and even klutziness.

The sidewalks were bustling in town yesterday, as many area colleges are graduating and hosting alumnae events, and, being the second Friday of the month, it was also an "Arts Night" of open studios. For a few minutes I leaned against the sun-warmed wall of a storefront facade and listened to a young guy purr growly blues and strum an old guitar. He was surrounded by scruffy townies and some dread-locked travelers camped in front of the dry cleaners to panhandle for change. I'm usually too busy or feeling too removed from that scene by age and experience to linger, but when I was 18 I would have had gladly taken my seat on the sidewalk. This guy had a good voice for the blues, and he wore a beat trucker hat and dark sunglasses and pointy black boots. He had a little black puppy tethered with a knotted cord of red fabric. I think he may have stepped right out of a Tom Waits song and materialized on that bench. It was one of those days when even my gnawing hunger felt good.

I was lucky enough to find exactly what I craved for lunch — fresh Vietnamese spring rolls, sans shrimp, with a proper dipping sauce of spicy sweet vinegar and floating chopped peanuts. I almost whooped for joy when I opened the to-go container and spotted that simple sauce. Around here fresh spring rolls are usually served with an overwhelming plum sauce — all wrong for the otherwise light, fresh spring rolls. I washed two rolls down with iced coconut juice while I sat in the park in the center of town, thinking about how long I've been here in the hills and how much life has changed since I arrived.

Later on, dinner with J was a bit heavier — Italian food on the tiny second floor terrace of Mullinos, at a table barely big enough to hold our two plates. We sipped white wine from sweaty glasses as the sun turned the crowded little town below us orange. I don't remember the last time we were able to have a nice dinner in Northampton, but it's been a while — since last fall, at least.

"How many dates do you think we've been on by now?" I asked between bites of Fettuccine alle verdure, still in reminiscing mode. "5,693?" We then tried to average it out in some way, figuring 3 dates a week for 15 years (we used to go out a lot more) and the number came out closer to 2,000. Still impressive. We met in Northampton, so it's a good thing I found my way here. The decision had seemed so random and unimportant when I was all of 22.

Later, as town grew dark, we ran into a guy I met just last weekend in Montague, unpacking three long didgeridoos in front of the Don Muller Gallery. We stopped to chat and he demonstrated the various subtleties of the didge — expaining how the Aborigines used it to emulate the sound (or the imagined "boinging" sound) of kangaroos hopping, and of kookaburra calling from the brush. Some people passing by glanced nervously at the long pipe sending rhythmic, breathy waves of vibration to the street, walking quickly as if the sound might trip them.

One night, not long after I arrived in this area, a friend took me to watch the moon rise from the grassy slope of Hospital Hill. "There's something about the Valley" she warned. "People come and never leave." That definitely won't be me I thought, if this is what people here do for excitement. But time has a way of sneaking by while you're falling in love, trying to make ends meet, rushing to work, keeping an old house together, and wandering around in the woods. There's nothing very exciting about it, but by now the sidewalks here lead to memories that are almost old enough to vote, and I find I kind of enjoy the Valley's soundtrack — blues and digderidoos, peace and quiet.

Grace (or lack there of)

Physical grace, this time.

Here it is Wednesday and I'm still sore all over from my Monday night yoga class. After 20 years of squishing my body into office chairs and tightening it at the gym I'm suddenly trying to leeeennngggthen out the tightly coiled spring of my back and spine. It feels as if I've spent some time on one of these medieval torture racks...

I wonder if I'll be taller a year from now. Will I be able to stop shopping in the "petite" department and finally get to wear the obscenely long offerings of J Crew? Will I be more graceful, like a willow? Or will I continue to walk, as my mom once noted, "like a linebacker." True enough — I'm never without lipstick and am often in a skirt or dress, but my tomboy swagger is deeply ingrained. I didn't realize how deep until my yoga teacher had us walk in wide circles around the studio, using the inside muscles of our thighs to sway our hips back and forth (yes, even the men). She made it look so easy, a fairy dancing above the floor, while I was mired in thinking "ok, push your hip out to the right now — no left! no right! Now why aren't my arms swinging?" Sometimes I feel more tarzan than Jane, honestly. Had she asked us to head outside and fling logs off the woodpile, caveman-style, I would have had a much easier time of it.

This afternoon was my yearly work review, which takes place at the restaurant of my choice (unfortunately there are very few choices in the area). As I stood sleepily in the doorway of my closet this morning I thought I'd be a proper professional and wear heels for a change, instead of the comfortable Merrell boots I've been living in since they arrived on my doorstep in November...

Except that when lunch rolled around and I made my grand entrance, steps in front of my boss, my right heel slipped out from underneath me and sent me toppling onto the floor between two tables which were, thank God, unoccupied. The restaurant fell silent as I quickly sprang up, saying, "Shit!" perhaps a little bit too loudly for, well, a restaurant. But hey, I'd just fallen on the ground in front of my boss at the start of my work review, so I figured I might as well add an expletive to the mix while I was at it.

At least I can laugh about my utter lack of coordination, which is what I did for the remainder of my day, alone at my desk, giggling until tears rolled down my cheeks. When a printer called to talk to me I picked up the phone, croaked "hello" and burst into hysterical laughter. Is it a full moon or something?

To ease my bruised ego I'm going to make two rhubarb pies tonight (yay spring!) — one for J and I, and one to bring to my yoga and meditation teachers. Then, as the wise Se'Lah suggested to me today, I'm going to ease the rest of me into a hot bath with Epsom salts so my boot-wearing, linebacker-swaggering self can aim for a little more comfort, and perhaps grace, tomorrow.

Krishna Das at the Zen Peacemakers

Finally! A bit of free time to post about my afternoon with Krishna Das and Bernie Glassman at the Montague Farm Zen House on Saturday.

It's strange, but before I attend events like this I'm a nervous wreck — afraid I'll get lost, afraid I'll arrive and then feel like an outsider. J gives me a pep talk and sends me on my way, and within a few miles it's inevitable that the beauty of spring in Western MA will distract me from my unnecessary fretting. Thanks to the GPS the Maezumi Institute was easy to find, and after being greeted with a big smile and enthusiastic "namaste" as I pulled into the parking lot I began to fully relax. Inside I was pleasantly surprised to see lots of familiar faces from both my Kripalu retreat and weekly kirtan in Northampton, and by the end of the day I'd made several new friends I'm sure I'll see again at future events.

The afternoon session was relaxed and informal, Krishna Das and Bernie Glassman talking to about 75-100 of us about service, devotion, meditation, attachment, non-duality — Bhakti yoga integrated with Socially Engaged Buddhism. The day unfolded gracefully with personal stories, chants, and time for a question and answer session while the rain poured down on the green hills surrounding us.

Having the opportunity to spend a day with two wise, thoughtful, spiritual teachers in beautiful surroundings — does it get any better? They had so much to share, especially about service to others — service to oneness really.

You stop thinking about yourself when you start thinking about others.

The way you can tell the depth of a person's enlightenment is how they serve others.

Drop your attachment to your own bag of bones and ask 'how am I going to serve?'

Krishna Das spoke of his guru, Neem Karoli Baba, and how he fed people, instructing his devotees to do the same. Bernie Glassman described the Zen Peacemaker's Street Retreats, in which participants live on the streets without money, bedding, change of clothing, books or watches. From the website: We will panhandle for bus fare, eat in soup kitchens and intimately and vividly come to see how our cocoons have insulated us from our groundlessness. We will meet three times a day for meditation practice and sharing in Wisdom Council, often joined by other homeless, giving us the opportunity to see ourselves as Other, to recognize our commonality, and to renounce habitual concepts that foster aversion, rejection and separation.
There's a fascinating account of street retreats from a minister who been doing them yearly here.

Bernie also encouraged us to come and be a part of the family-oriented community meals that the Zen house serves.

Jizo, the bodhisattva who plunges fearlessly into any place or situation to help those in need. His qualities include unflagging optimism, fearlessness, and gentleness.

After dinner I walked the grounds. The sun was making a brief appearance before setting, and a mysterious river, hidden from sight by trees and underbrush, was roaring as it wrapped its way around the property.

Before long many more people (200 I would guess) began to arrive for the evening kirtan, streaming in with the light. Kirtan with Krishna Das is incredible, and time seems to stop while it's happening. Two hours go by in a heartbeat, and suddenly it's time to head home again.