My Initial Reaction to Min's Reference; or, Navigating the Waters, Ancient-Mariner Style

There is no place for humiliation in the course of managing individual behavior;
behavior is a learned response, one that is predictable;
behavior exhibited is the best effort available at the time for a successful outcome by the individual:
these are the three assumptions from which our learning in class will proceed.
---Angela Kirby-Wehr, on the operating principles of functional behavioral analysis, and excerpted from my class notes.


Those assumptions are both ballast and Polaris: they are what help one keep an even keel and chart a steady course in sometimes uncertain waters.
Be assured, when we go to Meet Children Where They Are, it is well worth it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9FFE3zUKmyU

About That Avatar; or, That Bathhouse Makes Him Crazy

Our blogging friend Pelicano asked in an earlier post comment about my avatar here on Blogger. It is a still from what is most likely my favorite film from the master, Hayao Miyazaki: Spirited Away.
The image that I've chosen is one of Sen/Chihiro, the protagonist, and a character named No Face seated together.
For me, they are two sides of the same coin, one that spins close to my heart.
So, dear Pel, dear readers: if you've not seen the film, I would highly recommend it.
Here's the trailer as it appeared in Japan, followed by the scene in which my avatar image appears.
If you've seen the film, then you know exactly what a potent image it is.
Miyazaki is the master indeed.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QORyMLG9CyA
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5bOJE_F9yL0

Calling the Lama from Afar; or, What the River Gave Me

Dear reader, I am most glad that you are here to keep me "on task," as the shop talk goes.
I've challenged myself here in this venue not only to develop the habit, the practice of writing, but to assign words to that which I normally would---as the New Testament was fond of saying about a practice of Mary the Mother of Jesus---keep and treasure in my heart.
Whenever I would read this about Mary in the Bible, I would say, yes, I can see that; and in reading these accounts, I would always feel a well-springing forth of good feeling and deep affection: one that was not replicated when reading any other part of the Gospels.

This summer here has been so humid and still, as it has for you as well, perhaps. My sons and I have spent much time at our lovely river. The boys enjoy wading into it all, to see what they might find, scooping up and sifting silty through their hands: crayfish, minnows, pebbles, skipping stones. That boy I would chase by this same river, he the Gingerbread Boy, I, wanting some sugar, is now taller than I and teaching his much younger brother the finesse in the skipping of stones. He's even perfected the art of skipping crayfish. Can I say what a gleeful thing that is? And how eager his younger brother is to move onto that craft?
Me, I enjoy sitting on the soft bank, in the green-silver light that reminds me of the light of della Francesca or that other Northern Italian Renaissance painter who so articulated the quick-silver shimmer. It is often spoken in Zen practice that one may practice zazen most anywhere, doing most anything, and I attempt to realize this in my day-to-day. Laughing at skipping crayfish as they bounce upstream, knowing that their Mr.Toad's Wild Ride will be over soon enough is one of the ways that I practice.

I've mentioned Buddhist practice before to you, dear reader. What I must tell you is that I have no official affiliation as to my form of practice; I attend no bricks-and-mortar sangha. I am one who feels very much at home with the minimal or the baroque: thus I find my practice is informed by not only Zen, but by the distinct Mahayana form of Buddhism that is Tibetan Buddhism.
As Zen is particularly amenable to solitary practice (thanks, Boddhidharma!), Tibetan Buddhism is best realized when practiced under the tutelage of a lama. Having no access to a Tibetan-lineage sangha, much less to a lama, when I sometimes feel the need of a lama, I think of the experience that I've held and treasured in my heart, as Mother Mary: the puja destroying the sand mandala. I think of the aged lama who led the puja, who with beauty and ferocity in slow motion took gorgeous complexity and brushed it into a pile of muddy-colored sand.That first moment, when brush came to sand, seemed to turn the world in every sense to me.

Dear reader, it is one of the things I keep and treasure in my heart.

My younger son and I visited the river one day last week when we found ourselves to our own devices. Yes, he caught a few crayfish; after collecting them to see who was biggest? who was tiniest? they all were happily released to the current. On his way wading out, he noticed something from beneath a rock, and plucked it out: a small rodent skull, perfectly clean of flesh and hair. May I keep it? he asked. Sure, I replied. As he set it on a rock to adjust his shoe, we noticed it leaking. (Here, I must tell you, if you are somewhat squeamish, please skip ahead.)Although the skull was perfectly clean, the cold temperature of the river, in tandem with the inverted position in which it was wedged beneath the rock, must have allowed for the retention of some small amount of brain-matter in the skull cup to remain, and to decompose at a much slower rate than the rest of the flesh.
Can I keep it?
And so, dear reader, this is how I found myself shaking a rodent skull over the river to dislodge the remaining funky brain-stew so that it might exit the small aperature at the base of the skull through which the spine, with its bundle of nerves went crackling: you can imagine how it went, dear reader; it was exactly the action one uses when one shakes the ketchup out of the bottle onto a plate of fries.


So what did the river give me?
It gave me the most funny koan of a skipping crayfish, like the twirling of a flower.
It gave me a message from the lama from afar: like so much brain-stew into the silver current; an affirmation of life in all its complexity and simplicity; beautiful and not-so-beautiful.
This is the picture.
Treasure.
Enjoy.
Repeat.


http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Image:Lotus_flower.JPG#file

The Persistence of Memory; or, The Treachery of Images, Redux

Today is the final day of the school year for our boys. Next year, one will be in his final two years of high school; the other, still in elementary.

Sometimes I find it interesting and useful to think about the fluidity of time, of memory. I've had occasion to see many science-fiction type stories played out in various media, and I am often drawn to thought about that common story arc, that of the parallel universe/time travel: often, one character, upon discovering that alternate realities of the reality previously thought to be the one true reality truly do exist, travel through the ubiquitous time-space continuum to a different, alternate reality.

The traveler does so for many various reasons: to avert some tragedy; to gain information; to start over; to become deus ex machina; really, to be or to do anything. Truly any number of reasons are given; that's part and parcel of the pleasure of the playing of ideas, from fingerpainting to string theory, that question begins it all: how would you like to play?

There is some strange comfort to thinking about being able to have access to such a thing. If time is like a river, moving along into the ultimate sea; or if time is like, say, moving along in a spiral as if tracing the continous coil of a Slinky-type toy with one's finger, wouldn't it be good to be able to move back upstream to leave a little sign, a little touchstone, for the ride; or to be able to convey a wish to stop thinking about the circles of motion (round and round) and begin thinking and feeling about the direction of motion (up and up)? To say, look, this is the picture.

Frida is one of my favorite painters. She speaks to me, as she does to many others, with a unique language of icons. It is accepted in art history that she did not wish to be known as a Surrealist; some say it started with her abhorrence for Andre Breton. She was not averse to labels, when appropriate; she just didn't care for the word in reference to her.

An eloquent lady in many languages, that Frida.
shown above, right:

Memory, or the Heart, Frida Kahlo

www.abcgallery.com/K/kahlo

Green and Black Lace with Lite-brite; or, Metta Unexpected

Although my school district has completed its school year, the district that my sons attend is still in session. I've taken advantage of this today by going to the University early to complete research on a paper that is due before the month is over.
It is a beautiful June day, clear and warm. I decided to save money on parking fees in one of the city parking garages and park about a half a mile or so away in the parking lot of a city park fronted by a river.
I loved walking over the river bridge. It has both a pavement walkway and an iron-work-type of walkway. I chose to walk over the iron-work. The river was glinty-green against the black of the walkway. Lovely.
At the end of the bridge, there is a crosswalk. There is a traffic light there; the street to cross is a one-way street of several lanes.
The crosswalk has a pedestrian signal, indicating when it is safe to cross the road.

The signal is two images. One is an orange hand, depicted in the classic traffic-cop signal that says "stop" (but that for some time now also can be interpreted as "talk to the hand"); the hand glows steadily and cool, as if someone had made it from a Lite-brite toy. The hand is silent. The other image is the stick-figure-type of a single walking figure. The figure is white. It also glows in the same Lite-brite manner as the hand; however, it does not do so steadily. It blinks: on, off, on; and does so until the orange hand reappears. The figure is not silent. As the image flicks off, on, off, one hears the sound of a chirping bird.
As the hand glowed, I stood waiting, happy in the sun with the river glinting and moving behind me. An old man finished crossing the bridge and he took his place on the curbside as well. The bird began to chirp and we moved together across the road. What a simple and beautiful thing.


I've finished printing the necessary scholarly, peer-reviewed articles. I will now wade through the pile, dear reader, and thank you for your help to me, aiding me in this thing that is the practice of writing.

Time Is a River; or, Do You Like Mulch in Your Shoe?

Today was the first day of summer vacation for me.

After the boys went to school, I decided to go to the river that I love. It was a lovely morning, the kind that everyone remarks on in passing, because we just can't believe we've been gifted with such a day.

It was sunny-bright and windy and a little chilly with the breeze that was blowing. In the pocket of my sweatshirt I placed a packet of sand that I keep; it is ironic that I keep the sand given its provenance: the sand is from a sand mandala honoring Chenrezig, known as the Buddha of Compassion in Tibetan Buddhism . The puja was performed by the monks from the Drepung Loseling Monastery; my keeping of the sand is ironic as the purpose of the puja is to destroy the sand mandala in order to speak certain truths about impermanence. Dear reader, you might follow the link to see for yourself: http://www.mysticalartsoftibet.org/Mandala.htm#top

It is at this point, dear reader, that I must disclose that I have been most in need of cultivating compassion.

I must also disclose that I have been in need of integrating the knowing of impermanence into my life.

The first time I visited this river, I was brought there by a former boyfriend. We had meant to surprise each other, and we did, delightfully so: I brought watermelon, his favorite; he brought me to a river, my favorite.

I visited this place often, even after J. and I parted ways. It was running along the riverbank after my-then-2-year-old son (he, pretending to be the proverbial Gingerbread Boy; me, pretending to be in hot pursuit) that I remember laughing for the first time in years. (Dear reader, I had been isolated and abused for some time before becoming free. More words for another time, perhaps.) When I received the phone call that told me of my brother's death, I immediately came to the river, in the winter; where else would I have turned?

Without any other way to explain this, I know these feelings each time I visit, and there is deep and simple satisfaction in it.

I wished to just sit without words for a while. I work in public education in an elementary special education classroom. Our classroom will miss one of our special people (who I will, out of necessity, give a designated pseudonym---Cerulean).

Cerulean's parents came to feel that Cerulean was not receiving adequate delivery of service in our classroom, and they are seeking a new placement. Cerulean left rather abruptly, and I felt very sad, for many, many reasons. We are always sad when we know we will likely never see people we care for again, are we not? I felt sad that Cerulean and classmates were not able to have a chance to say goodbye to each other in whatever way they needed; one of the manifestations of Cerulean's autism is that Cerulean does not use much verbal language.

Attachment, dear reader, is the cause of much suffering.

So feeling some strong attachments to feelings and ideas about the Cerulean situation, I went to the river.

As I was walking the trail before sitting zazen with the river, I met a woman, a young girl, and a large dog on the path. (No, dear reader: although it sounds as if it is a promising beginning to a joke, it is not. ) After pleasant conversation about the beautiful day, I remarked that I liked the lilac-colored Crocs worn by the girl. I laughed a little as I said this, as I myself was wearing a pair of Crocs. The woman said, they are a pretty color. But she keeps being bothered by the mulch getting into the little holes. Does it happen to you? the woman asked.

Sure, but I don't much mind, I said. I just slip them off, dump them out, and start all over again. The woman looked dubious for a fraction of a second, and then laughed a little. We went our separate ways.

I found a rock that proved a perfect seat and sat by the river. The intent of my sitting was to cultivate compassion regarding the situation with Cerulean. The day that Cerulean left was difficult for us for many reasons. That night, I had a nightmare. I was in a classroom with our students when Cerulean jumped up and ran out of the room. I chased Cerulean through the stereotypical labyrinth of corridors and floors of bad dream architecture. I finally was able to catch up in a stairwell. In my dream, Cerulean began to speak to me, in "I need..." sentences. Complete sentences. Many, many sentences. I didn't have anything that Cerulean requested in my dream. In my dream, I did not think twice that Cerulean engaged me in a wave of verbal language.

When I woke from this dream, Cerulean's speech was most wonderful and very sad, all at once.

When I was ready to return to the rest of my day, I stood up, and poured some of the sand in my pocket into the river.

I had to laugh a little again at this point. I suppose I finally perceived the joke, dear reader: you know, the one about the girl, the woman, the large dog, and mulch in the shoe?

I remembered that Cerulean sometimes wore Crocs. When this occured, Cerulean would, as a habit, deliberately insert mulch from the playground into the holes.