Crystal winds ring in my ears,
Melodies eliding fears.
Hoping without hovering,
A widened time uncovering.
Growing in the fields.
The song of the sun wings whistle-bled,
Samsara swarming in my head.
From germs and worms to fattened fruit,
A drinking season’s sunrise soon.
Growing in the fields.
Hours open always asking,
A feral calm with full unmasking.
Away we wade into clouds of loam,
Towards the fields to peace, to home.
Growing in the fields.
Posted in Create | Tagged farming, gardening, poetry, spirituality, Thailand | Leave a Comment »
A curving line of fire draped across the face of Doi Nang like a ghastly grin. To the east a broken fragment of a blood red moon struggled to rise over the Phrao Mountains. Something turned in the pit of my stomach. I gulped and braced myself as I throttled out into the cold night, thinking, “I guess this is what I asked for.”
The seed for this eerie episode had unwittingly been planted a few hours earlier. That afternoon I was in my little round earth hut surrounded by Chiang Dao’s two big mountains: Doi Luang and Doi Nang. I’d been reading In the Wake of the Jomon
I put my book down and I turned a scan of the curving lime and mud plastered walls of my hut. I gazed out through simple wooden windows over the tree-lined field and the hazy brown and green mountains beyond. I mused over what fruit trees, vegetables, herbs and cereals to plant when the rainy season begins. I eyed the ridges and gulleys for future hikes. Images from my short residence in Chiang Dao – sunsets, snakes, mist and stars – came back to me. “For now, this corner of the planet is where I’ll find my adventure.” I said to myself. It was a nice thought, a comforting thought.
A column of white smoke rising up the face of Doi Nang caught my eye. Knowing that the burning season was underway did put a damper on my mood, but in that sunny day I couldn’t see any portent of real darkness. And soon I was too distracted to give adventure any more thought for the time being. That day, in our quiet corner of Thailand, a music, arts & natural living festival run by a bunch of expat Japanese hippies was kicking off. I jumped on my bike to meet some friends there and check it out. We spent the evening eating, drinking and listening to blues and bizarre Australo-Japanese trance/fusion. The Shambala In Your Heart festival seemed a happy, goofy, carefree expression of togetherness & creativity. But when the party was over and I left that tiny circle of warmth for the ride home, the night I met was cold, raw and haunting.
As soon as I turned my bike up the dirt road towards the mountain I spotted that bright sickle of flame casting its horrible pall over the black valley. It was absurdly big, seeming to stretch from peak to peak. In that still landscape with an icy, glittering canopy of stars above, the fire seemed so wrong. It was more than just a destructive natural phenomenon, its smile was a sneering desecration of my sacred space. Shoulders hunched tight against looming dread and biting cold, I rode through black fields right towards the flaming, mocking maw. That was the way home.
When I pulled through my gate half the blaze was blocked from view by a nearby foothill. Standing in front of my little hut I could see individual fires, dancing yellow tongues strung in an arcing line from low on the right all the way up to the ridge on the left. At this angle the fire looked less like a demonic smile and more like a candle-lit procession of giants solemnly ascending to the heights. It still was awe-ful, though not in a dark, ominous way. I felt like I’d stumbled on-stage into a grand drama in which I had no part and, even more, might get trampled on unawares by the mighty actors. (And no I hadn’t been smoking anything at the Japanese hippie fest, much to my disappointment).
I brought my palms together in a show of respect for the forces on the prowl that night and made a hasty retreat into my round little hobbit home. A couple of candles gave only enough light to emphasize the surrounding darkness. Inside the air of dread eased but I still suffered a kind of spooky solitude. I huddled up in all my warm clothes, sat down with my mobile phone and rode a stream of apps and emails back to the comfortable universe of electronic diversion.
Down off the mountain and back in the city, I now look back at that evening and wish I had the chance to be there again, in the shadow of gods and giants. Just hours earlier my heart had longed for a sense of the great, the bizarre, the powerful and the mysterious out there in the wild world that my day-to-day life seemed disconnected from. I’d even had the sense that it was in that very valley between Doi Luang and Doi Nang that such an experience was to be found. I hardly expected though that it would come the way it did, with Kali’s flame-dripped lips hanging over me. I’d been caught unawares. I am so tempted to blame the freaks at the Shambala festival for distracting me. But that wouldn’t be right, and they were so damned nice anyway. It was my own carelessness. I forgot that in my heart I’d called on the wild gods of the mountains. I’d asked them to smile on me. And then I wasn’t ready for the time and manner of the reply. But I did receive a lesson about mindfulness and expectations. I guess this was one of those times I got what I needed more than what I wanted.
Posted in Think | Tagged environment, jon turk, mindfulness, nature, spirituality, Thailand | Leave a Comment »
I sat breathing on a park bench. A wide bright green lawn lay before me with a row of dark green trees beyond. A path contoured the far edge of the lawn beneath the trees. My eyes were level, gaze unfixed. A glint, moving swiftly at head height caught my attention. I didn’t immediately follow it with my eyes, but my mind registered it as a bicycle helmet, the rider moving left to right. When I shifted my gaze to confirm this, I saw only a dragonfly – no bicycle anywhere. I resumed my meditation and moments later again saw the same glint with my peripheral vision. “Another bicycle” my mind said without hesitation. My direct vision followed and again said “dragonfly”. And a third time the same thing happened, just as before.
Then I began to reflect. My peripheral vision was convinced that a series of cyclists were riding by. Even though my “superior” direct vision had “disproved” it at least twice already, the mind habitually made the same leap. This process and its implications were interesting enough to consider, but prodded by a recent reading of Yogananda, I took it a step further: Perhaps my direct vision is also misleading. My eyes & mind tell me “dragonfly” with certainty, but should I simply accept that? Is there a “higher” vision that could offer a clearer, truer perception? And could there another even beyond that?
Posted in Think | Tagged meditation, philosophy, spirituality, Yogananda | Leave a Comment »
I’ve got no problem accepting the fact that deep down in my being, I’m a monkey. I mean, it’s clearly stated there on the label, right? “Homo sapiens”- wise monkey. But there’s the rub. When I look at myself honestly I find that often I’m neither very wise, nor am I a good monkey. In examining our lives we often tend to focus on the wisdom side of the scale. The monkey part sadly gets ignored or misused, and with unfortunate results. So that’s what I’m thinking about today: how to make peace with, or maybe make use of, my inner-monkey?
It’s all a matter of place. One of the things holding me back in life, and I’d venture to say this is probably true for many of us, is that all too often I’ve got a monkey mind (impulsive, undisciplined, unreflecting, tribal) paired with a human body (weak, inflexible, hobbled by chronic injuries and diseases largely resulting from the so-called “conveniences” of modern civilization – processed foods, sitting at desks, etc.). In other words, I’ve got it precisely backwards. How much better off would I be with a more human mind (self-aware, deliberative, sympathetic) and paired with a monkey body (strong, flexible, adaptable, resilient, naturally at ease)?
Monkeys don’t do well in cages. They thrive in their natural surroundings when they’re free to make use of all their abilities. When we wrap up, coddle, neglect and otherwise stifle our physical natures, we invite trouble. The opposite holds true with regard to our minds. When we give free reign to our fantasies, desires and idle speculations, we find ourselves scattered and unsatisfied. Flexibility of thought is certainly good, but direction and discipline are key to a healthy mind.
So how do we make the necessary correction? An important first step is re-connecting body & mind, so that the different energies have a pathway to flow & balance out. Personally I’m a big fan of martial arts, yoga, chi kung and sports but athleticism isn’t the point here. Connecting with and cultivating the body can be as simple as going for a mindful walk. Swing your arms, move from your hips, try going barefoot. Be conscious of how you move, how you hold your body. Ask yourself “why?” And ask yourself “Am I at ease? What could I do to be more at ease?” With awareness all your artificial, unhealthy habits will show themselves. In this way the mind helps the body.
The body too can help the mind. Sit still and watch your breath. Or focus on simple body awareness practices like in mahasati meditation. The body gives you an anchor for your mind. The mind will drift, that is natural, but the anchor helps you see when the drift occurs, it helps you identify the currents that pull at the mind. And when you can see these currents, you can make conscious choices out of what were previously unthinking responses.
There are deeper benefits to the man-monkey relationship down the road, but for now it’s enough to recognize and make peace with the monkey. Peace comes not through caging or restraining him. Embrace your monkey and let him thrive in his proper place. He will help you in return.
Posted in Act, Think | Tagged evolution, martial arts, meditation, mind body, spirituality, yoga | 1 Comment »
He called me “Falcon”. My old Muay Thai teacher gave a nickname to all his students and that was mine. When he was feeling charitable, he’d tell me he chose “Falcon” because I had good vision and could swoop in my opponents quickly. But then there were times he told me that the name was inspired by my skinny little bird legs.
I’ve always had skinny legs and I’ve always been a runner. As a kid, sprinting was my thing and I was often the fastest kid on the track or on the soccer field. Running all out was a rush, pure joy. As I got older and my jets cooled I made an easy transition to distance running. Here the joy was more subtle. The rhythm, the chance to quiet myself and enjoy the scenery, the satisfaction at chewing up the miles, these were the attractions running now held. I set longer and longer goals and ended up finishing some serious events – the Imogene Pass Run, a few triathlons. But as the distances increased I kept running into one problem – my bird legs.
I know, great distance runners have skinny legs. But as the old saying goes, it’s not the size that counts but what you do with it. I must have been doing something wrong because every time I trained for a big race I got injured. Through some combination of rest and pushing through the pain, I could usually end up accomplishing my goals, but the joy factor took a hit. I tinkered with things like different shoes, new stretches, diet and supplements. At times I thought I was onto something. Then my bird legs would squawk again in painful protest. It got pretty frustrating.
As loyal readers here will know, through martial arts I’ve recently been focusing a lot of attention on weight distribution in my feet and this has been helping me strengthen my skinny calves. I’ve also come across new stretches that both stretch and strengthen my legs at the same time (check out elasticsteel.com). And then recently I read an eye-opening book that added a whole new dimension to my approach to my legs.
Born to Run, by Christopher McDougall
It was a fun and thought-provoking read in many ways, but the main reason I found Born to Run so believable and inspiring mostly because it confirmed things I already knew or suspected.
It all seems so reasonable and so intuitively correct, and I’ve got inspiration to dive back into running with a new approach. As I age, the push to “train harder” is yielding to a push to “train smarter”, and barefoot running fits this perfectly. But it’s about more than just running.
For me, barefoot running provides another angle on what is a fundamental but widely ignored aspect of all our lives – our relationship with gravity. So many of our physical pains and limitations come from a dysfunctional relationship with gravity. Our bodies are designed to work efficiently with gravity, but drunk with our own inventiveness we’ve stuck things in between – shoes and chairs especially – that end up skewing that basic relationship. It’s not that shoes and chairs are necessarily evil, it’s just that we’ve become careless and lazy with regard to them. We think about aesthetics and not kinetics, we aim to please the eyes and the ego and ignore the needs of our whole bodies. But there’s good news. Changing this dynamic is very simple and natural. We need less equipment, not more. And there’s even better news – this process of re-connecting with gravity, with how we are built to live, is anything but a chore.
“Know Yourself” was the dictum hanging over the entrance to the temple at Delphi. Many of us take that in either a philosophical sense or in a pschyo-analytical sense. Those approaches are fine, but to the Delphic command I’d add the words inscribed over Plato’s Academy: “Let none but geometers enter here.” In other words, an important and often neglected component of self-knowledge is the knowledge of one’s own geometry. Martial arts masters have long known that the body is a machine. This is not to say that it is just a machine, but the musculo-skeletal system basically functions as an engineered collection of levers and pulleys. And from ancient times the real masters discovered that developing intimate knowledge of the body’s workings leads not only to physical skill but to enhanced awareness, spiritual development and a healthier, simpler life. Barefoot runners, it would seem, are onto the same thing. Reconnect with gravity. Know your geometry. You end up knowing much more and needing much less. Like shoes, for starters.
Posted in Act | Tagged barefoot running, health, martial arts, running, spirituality | Leave a Comment »
I walked through the wide metal doors and into the dojo in Tokyo, which was actually a junior high school gymnasium. Of the maybe 10 people out on the wooden floor in their karate gis, one stood out clearly from all the rest. It wasn’t either of the young girls who fought a lively sparring match. It wasn’t the black belt teacher who paced around refereeing the contest. It wasn’t any of the slim, strong teenagers who stood around the perimeter waiting for their turn to fight. It was a man who stood still, close by but with his back turned to me. He was tall and thin, his hair buzzed short. His feet were planted evenly just more than shoulder width apart. Loose fists hung easily by his thighs. His posture was straight, but not rigid or forced. Something about the way he stood was commanding. Without him moving, you could tell this guy was a serious karate badass. When he finally turned and I saw the Japanese flag on his gi, a sign that he had been a member of the Japan national team, I knew my judgment was correct.
I saw and trained with a lot of skilled martial artists while I was in Japan, but of all the great performances I saw, something about Fujimoto Sensei’s stance stuck with me. So I decided to try a new practice: Forget about moving like a master, I just want to see if I can stand like one. Nowadays when I’m standing waiting for anything – the next karate drill, the next available teller at the bank – I try to assume Fujimoto’s posture, not just imitating how it looks from the outside but trying to internalize the sense of ease, stability and readiness it radiates. Already I’ve learned so much.
On a purely physical level, when I adopt the Fujimoto stance I find my hips rolling slightly forward. This flattens my back, makes my center more solid and brings my weight more forward onto the balls of my feet, where it belongs if I want to move with speed, balance and ease. My shoulders relax and my chest is neither stuck out nor caved in. And when I adjust to this stable and energizing stance, I see clearly how old habits have unbalanced my body. I feel tension in my calves and hip flexors, chronically shortened by habitually weak posture. And I also see clearly how I can correct these problems, which will allow me to improve my balance, fluidity and flexibility in general.
These physical lessons are fascinating and valuable but through this stance training I’m learning something deeper and more beautiful. In martial arts training, we all begin with learning the basics of stances and how to hold our bodies. Over time we add more and more techniques of increasing complexity. But the more I travel down this path I realize that it’s not the gross body movements that make for real skill in movement. It’s the subtle things that are crucial factors, things invisible to all but the most trained eye, like just where on your foot you are keeping your weight, or to what degree your hips are tucked in. In these cases millimeters make all the difference, and when you dive in deep into your art you find yourself paying more attention to the most basic things – exactly how you stand, step, breathe. The process becomes elemental, more one of careful whittling away than of adding.
This becomes clear when you see that in my style of karate the highest level tests, for 8th degree black belt, consist of only a few basic techniques, techniques that you learn in your first year of training. Quality rules over quantity, and the ultimate point of training is not to learn a thousand ways to hurt someone, but to refine your own awareness and movement down to the finest levels, to achieve purity and perfection in the most simple techniques. In one sense you cycle back and end up where you began, only now the techniques unfold naturally, spontaneously, flawlessly and without thought.
Something similar happens with Buddhist meditation, at least the way I practice. At the beginning we have a method, following the breath for example. We sit and apply the method, but it takes effort and we find as we sit we notice so many other things – pain from sitting, noises in the environment, memories and thoughts passing through our minds. As we continue practicing, we develop the physical ability to sit still and comfortable, internally we achieve a level of concentration or mental quiet, we may have powerful visions or supra-normal sensations. In other words, we are expanding the inventory of our skill. With dedicated practice, subtle and profound states of consciousness can follow. But eventually it comes back to the basics. The truest sign of real cultivation is not in the proliferation of spiritual acrobatics, but in the finest, most natural development of the simplest technique. We only sit and observe various experiences as they arise, if they arise. But now it happens completely naturally, without judgment or identification. There is no “I”, only the practice.
Pablo Picasso is said to have remarked, “It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child.” I think the cycling back to the beginning holds true in the deep pursuit of any art. The trick is, you have to take the whole journey in order to truly know the beginning. For me, this phase of the long journey started not with a single step, but with standing still.
Posted in Act | Tagged art, buddhism, japan, karate, martial arts, meditation, spirituality, vipassana | 2 Comments »
A man is like a candle.
Encased, hidden within the waxy body of desire and baseness is a wick.
When the wick comes into contact with the flame of true practice,
it ignites and radiates warmth and light.
Then the wax simply melts away.
Posted in Think | Tagged buddhism, meditation, religion, spirituality | Leave a Comment »
