Making a Choice

*The Way to the Ultimate is not hard;
simply give up being picky and choosy.

In our tradition we have very clear teaching from Zen Master Dogen around food. In every aspect from buying it, preparation, cooking and eating the mind of non discrimination towards food, of not being picky and choosy, is held uppermost. Living within a monastery one is saved from needing to choose what to eat since that is all dealt with by the chief cook. He or she, under the guidance of the Abbot, decides what is eaten at each meal. Of course there is plenty of room left for being mentally picky and choosy while eating, however what one eats is not a choice.

Living as a lone Prior these past couple of years my meals evolved into being more or less the same for breakfast, lunch and medicine meal. I guess I defaulted to a combination of what I like to eat and what takes the least amount of time to prepare. The priors life is a busy one with little time to spend on cooking for oneself or deciding a varied menu. In this way shopping was simple, preparation straight forward and picky/choosy problems side stepped. Now while traveling, and eating out especially, the issue of personally choosing what to eat from a menu brings up the picky/choosy issue. When I'm asked what I like to eat my standard answer is, "I eat anything (vegetarian)". And that is true.

When faced with a menu this lunch time making a choice was not easy. "What would you like to eat"? "Err, it all looks good to me!" The great variety of choice can be overwhelming. Yes that, and then there is a fine line between choosing and being choosy and picking a dish from the menu and being picky. All a matter of right attitude of mind of course.

*From 'That which is Engraved Upon the Heart That Trusts to the Eternal'
(Kanshi Sosan, 30th Ancestor), Buddhist Writings, Copyright Shasta Abbey Press

Airy Repose

I walked up Solano Avenue this afternoon, it’s familiar territory and close to the Berkeley Priory where I’m staying at the moment. It’s all Starbucks and up-market boutiques now; the thrift store has long gone. The sun was out, sea mist coming and going with a brisk wind blowing dampness off the bay. Solano starts in the City of Albany and ends in the Berkeley Hills. And up there among the houses is something quite remarkable. Indian Rock a rock climbers haven which, it would seem, has links to WW2 history.

But few people know about little Indian Rock, as I call it. Where The Alameda intersects Solano there’s a path threading its way between the houses leading to Indian Rock. Then take the first left off this path and a few houses down on the right there’s a huge rock. Big as a house. The developers just skipped a plot left the rock there and made a neighbourhood park. Few people know about it or use. I sat at roof height to rest awhile and take in the vista.

Gazing out across the bay to distant San Francisco with the Golden Gate Bridge swathed in sea fog and Alcatraz looming out of the grey is to be transported. It’s almost to fly, or at the very least to have some moments of high-up, wind-blown, airy repose.

Close to the top of Solano is Pegasus; a bookstore selling new and second hand books. I strolled through, more a pilgrim than paying customer. Ah Pegasus, the flying horse of the Muses a symbol of high-flying imagination.

It’s good to spend time with my monastic family and also to check-in here too, when I can. Like sending a postcard, with wings, not knowing where it will land or who will read it.

Octopus's Garden

Today would not have been my first choice for taking to the sky's but that's what I did. The flight from Vancouver to San Francisco was just over two hours and given the recent events in England passengers were asked to check-in three hours before the flight. The security was not hyper vigilant however I got the feeling there was a lot of unobtrusive 'watching' going on.

All the same one could have been forgiven for anxiety levels to be somewhat higher the day after a major 'bust'. So I was delighted to find an article in the Alaska Airlines Magazine on the Giant Pacific Octopus by Brandon Cole. His close up photograph of the critters disc-shaped suckers as well as a number of other stunning close-ups had me transfixed, and distracted, for most of the flight south.

Sometimes it is skillful, and compassionate, to distract ones mind. To direct ones attention purposefully to something other than what's occupying it. Or in my case for the last 24 hours, pre occupying it.

Here's some script from the article for your interest and amazement.
"The arms of the Giant Pacific Octopus are lined with up to 1,600 disc-shaped suckers. They work together to grip with Herculean strength or manipulate with wondrous finesse. The suckers are wired into the creature's advanced sensory system and are used to 'taste" objects and creatures it encounters." and latter in the article... "Enteroctopus Dofleini is the world's largest octopus species--examples weighing more than 200 pounds with an arm span of more than 20 feet have been recorded in the cool, nutrient-rich waters of the Pacific Northwest." The author goes on to say, "I've had them hop onto my head, ride piggyback on my air tank and play tug-of-war with my camera."

As coincidence would have it Victor, who took the photo of the bridge at Lytton, has spent quite a bit of time down in the depths swimming around with the long armed ones between Vancouver Island and the mainland.

* * *

I'd like to think I will be able to continue to post regularly however these past couple of weeks have shown me that I'm most likely going to be sporadic for awhile. Thanks for continuing to visit. Do take a look at the photos to be found by following the link.

Carry On

There was a serious derailment on the bridge over the Thompson River at Lytton over a week ago. Coal was dumped into the river. Seems it will take two to three months to mend the bridge. So hearing the train whistle echoing up Botanie Valley yesterday morning was a reminder that the trains are now moving through the mountains again, to and from the Prairies and beyond. Lytton is thriving with all the extra business brought in with the bridge workers. It's said that the local motel is having people sleep in eight hour shifts. Sheets changed every eight hours?

And as if that was not enough, on Friday a second derailment with grain being dumped into the Fraser River this time.

One moment the train is running just fine the next moment jumping the tracks and into the river. So much depends on keeping the trains on the tracks and moving right along. Just like us, or so we think.

One can become derailed, but not for long. That would defy one of the three signs of existence. Impermanence. Maybe falling off the tracks is not as big a disaster as we imagine. After all, life does carry on without our moving hand and that is good to be reminded of, now and then.

Thanks to Victor for the photograph. Good job.

Train Whistle Calling

I should have known better. My hosts in Vancouver are ex prairie people, one family of firm German stock moved north from Saskatchewan to Fort St. John, to farm. We talked growing up on a farm talk this evening. Day old chicks, making ends meet, trying pig farming, horses, bridles and bits. And the country. We looked at photographs; weddings and puffy hair, smiles and memories. It all made so much sense, she said, reading about a Mennonite boyhood in the Boreal forest of Saskatchewan. Great book by Rudy Wiebe, 'of this earth', published this year. Uh! I should have know better, but I knew what I was doing. Opened up the book and an hour latter it's nearly midnight.

Just writing that was refreshing.

But that wasn't what I'd intended. It was the sound of the train whistle calling up the valley this morning that's been with me most of the day. That haunting sound, the echoes bouncing and fading. Evocative.

All that arises, passes.

Under my Skin

People have been asking after me. "Are you getting some rest"? "I expect you are glad to be away from responsibilities in Edmonton, so you can get some rest". You must be feeling rested now...". Purposefully resting, "now I will go and rest" is not something I tend to do. I told one of the monks recently that when I can't keep my eyes open any longer I lay down and go to sleep. That's as close to purposefully resting as I get. However I'm one of those fortunate people who can fall sleep, at any time. I remember being on a hike with my dad in Scotland. We sat down on a pebble beach beside a river to have lunch and afterwards we both fell fast asleeeeep in the sun. It must be a family trait. These days though when it comes to sleeping at night before midnight, I remain wide awake.

Last night, partly in response to all those messages about getting rested, I decided to turn in early at 10.30 ish relinquishing the wish to write a blog entry. As midnight came and went and unconsciousness eluded me I wished I'd written instead. But this sleep pattern will have to change as monastic schedules set rising before 5.00 in the summer months and I'll be at Shasta Abbey in a couple of weeks.

I'll get in a bit of early-to-bed-early-to-rise practice this week-end as the community at Lions Gate Priory will be packing up and driving out to the retreat land near Lytton. We stay until Monday, a holiday in Canada. No late night blogging for me for a few days.

On the subject of resting? For me, the deepest rest is to simply sit, and I'm able to find more time for that at the moment. Thank you for your well wishes and kind concerns.

And Edmonton, Alberta, people, dogs, big skies, thunder, lightening, peeling paint, sunshine, hot cars. Like Singapore, you got under my skin and haven't left.

Make Time to Play

Inspiration is slow to arrive this evening; I’ve gotten out of the habit of writing.

I think of blackberries, what a treat! And free for the picking. The prior of Lions Gate Priory and I wandered off for a walk this afternoon. Right there in the neighbourhood, walking and talking, picking berries and eating them, what a treat on a lazy afternoon.

Nearly back to where we started we see some lads in the park rolling around on the ground. Are they hurt? Or are they laughing? It’s hard to tell. We get up closer and see they’re laughing, on and on and then we hear the reason. They had kicked the soccer ball into their own net, scoring a goal for the other side. Just a lot of summer fun, nothing serious, no crowds to boo are cheer.

Recently I was told about a film made in Russia about an impoverished family. The oldest girl, in her early teens, talks directly to the camera. She takes care of the children, the father, everything. “What would you like if you could have anything”. In a sad and lifeless way she says, “To play”.

While on Vancouver Island a woman took me for a tour by car to get a sense of the area around Victoria. I even got to climb about on rocks and stalk birds with my camera. The island is a lovely place at this time of year; I’ll post photographs one of these evenings. My guide told me about her son who is just starting his stint of volunteer work near Lusaka, Zambia. Tut, tut, no emails home for two weeks. He’s working for an organization called Right to Play. Their web site is currently featuring a project on the outskirts of Mozambique’s capital. The children there play in the garbage dump, looking for toys or food. But now a local lad who once played at the dump, Justin, works as a coach for Right to Play and plays football with the kids.

Do you remember ever knowing a cat that hadn’t learnt to play, and how you tried to show it how? There are some children in this world like that, and some adults too. How very sad that is.

Salty Sea Stories

I had a good visit to Vancouver Island and learnt many interesting things about the sea, and about Santa Claus!

The giant Pacific octopus lives in the sea between the mainland and the island. An orca is a sea dolphin not a whale. And to take care making cell phone calls on the ferry to the island as it passes through US waters and one would incur US roaming charges.

I also learnt Santa Claus was a Catholic Saint who performed many miracles including saving storm tossed, near drowned sailors. And another legend tells how a terrible famine struck the island (of Myra) and a malicious butcher lured three little children into his house, only to kill and slaughter them and put their remains in a barrel to cure, planning to sell them off as ham. Saint Nicholas, visiting the region to care for the hungry, not only saw through the butcher's horrific crime but also managed to resurrect the three boys from the barrel.

So there we have it, miracles and mystery for the salty sea. How I love to be out on a boat.