- Ross

“All beings grow old,” but I don’t feel age in my body. “All beings get sick,” but I’ve always recovered. “All beings die,” but not quite yet. It’s bourgeois suffering: the suffering of existence. But what happens when you see someone suffer and know that you’re helpless to help?

My best friend’s brother is in the hospital right now. For 10 years he has managed aggressive thymoma (he wasn’t supposed to have long to live when he first heard this diagnosis). The cancer is suffocating his heart such that he needs tubes to remove liquid to make room. He doesn’t wake up in pain because he doesn’t go to sleep: he rests, in pain. Treatment too will be painful.

I’ve been regularly dedicating my practice to him, to his family. Buddhism doesn’t give you an intercessory being like a god to pray to, to ask that He intercede on your friend’s health – that He cure him. When I dedicate my practice, the most I can hope for is that the peace, the presence, the living force that I cultivate on the mat and cushion be not wasted on me, but be shared – that this becomes my friend’s. And with this, the hope that peace brings healing, recovery.

It’s magic talk – that my intentions be felt 1,500 miles away… that my love be felt at all. (aside: disregard for a moment prayer research) Beyond hope, I had no reason to think I was making a difference. Until last night: I had insight.

Gido chanting is a devotional practice meant to cultivate the virtue of the bodhisattva whose name you’re chanting. Last night, with 6 others, we chanted Gwanseum Bosal (Sk.: Avalokitesvara) – the Boddhisattva of Great Compassion. Then it dawned on me, my dedication was cultivating compassion. Compassion literally means “to suffer with.”

My dedication is a vow to be there with my friend – miles away – that he is not alone in his suffering – that we are in this together – that I take on some of his suffering – and he shares some of my peace and presence – and that we are all connected, that it’s not just a lot of sentimental peace-love lip service.

Compassion is not sympathy. Sympathy is a simile, a metaphor. Compassion is literal. And because it’s so real, there are no words for comfort. How do I know “it will be alright?” I don’t.

But I do know that it IS alright. I hear your spirits are up, that you’re the same old Scott. For all that could be “not right,” at this moment in time, you are loved, you are surrounded by those you love. You are compassion for all those who suffer because they love you.

Why do you wake when the alarm goes off? Why do you hop in the shower? Why do you go to work? Why, when there is so much to do, do you instead do these things?

Why pause in gratitude before a meal?

Why breathe before entering your home?

Why greet the morning sun with a smile?

With the infinite possibilities, you do these things. With all the limitless potential and grand schemes, you do these small things. Why?

When at peace, why do you sit? Why do you sit when at peace?

So you’re sitting on the red line (you actually got a seat today), and – oh yeah, it’s five minutes past five, which means you tore ass out of your office to be here in five minutes, and also it’s Tuesday, the worst day of the week. You’re sitting there dully, only to discover that the batteries in your fucking Kindle are dead. Didn’t even know those things had batteries. You shove it back in your brown leather musset bag and, so like, whatever, you look around. You make eye contact with the homeless guy sitting across from you but you instinctively divert your gaze so as to minimize contact with another human being. But, joke’s on you, because you sweep your head in the other direction and pay attention just long enough to notice that the homeless guy is staring at you. There’s no decency in that, of course. You know that. You look left.

You glance up but shoot your eyes down just as quick to avoid making eye contact with the pregnant woman standing two paces from you. Now, she’s not staring at you, but you feel that she is. You feel that everyone is staring at you: get up you bum, this woman is creating life in her fucking belly, what did you do today? But no one can make you, cuz you tore ass to get here right now. Somebody else totally should. That homeless guy should move the bags off of his seat for her. I mean, what the fuck, his bags are holding more bags. It’s like a homeless Russian doll. Besides, whatever, you’re getting off at the next stop, Belmont so… it’ll be fine. You could stare at your phone for a little while, but… but, yeah, you stare at your phone a bit – I don’t know, reading old texts and shit. Belmont arrives. You squeeze through the masses, trying not to touch anybody.

You stand on the platform, staring south down the tracks. You’re freezing and you’re bored. One purple line and two red lines come before a single brown line comes. If they make this thing run express, you’re gonna kill somebody.

They don’t, lucky you. You only have two stops to go, to the dandyish Paulina. Blocks from your shitty studio apartment, which you never envisioned yourself living in as a 30-year-old.

You walk a block to the convenient store of your life. Haven’t decided yet if it’s gonna be  Hormel beef stew or cottage cheese and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. About to enter, you hear out of the corner of your conciousness: ^Hey – ‘scuse me. Buy me some liquor, porn and cigarettes?

You look over only to find your underage minor within: No.

^C’mon man, don’t be a drag. You remember what it was like to be underage.

This little fucker is gonna guilt you into doing this, and it’ll work, because secretly you want this little pricks approval. You want him to think you’re cool. You want to oblige him for something you could never do, would never do cuz you don’t have the balls. Alright, but no cigarettes. Anything in particular?

^yeah, man, boone’s farm

You’re gonna make me look like an asshole.

^and just the raunchiest shit they got

I’m not gonna do that, I’ll get you something tasteful.

^what the fuck, man, just do it

No, I don’t want you to grow up with perverse ideals of what relationships should be. I mean, sex. I want you to grow up respecting women – that’s something to be proud of.

^whatever man. just promise me i’ll get to see some vas deferens.

What? No. How do you even know what that is?

You go inside the convenient store of your life, look around. The cashier is watching a small TV behind the counter, doesn’t even acknowledge you exist. You pick up a few items “and, I guess, a bottle of Boone’s Farm. Strawberry.” When you say this, the cashier looks out the window. The kid wasn’t in sight, so it’s fine.

Your self-respect finishes checking you out: Boone’s Farm, Playboy, Slim Jim, and, oh yeah, you went with the Cheetos and cottage cheese. Congratulations.

You walk outside and hand a bag to the kid. Uhh… it’s like twelve dollars.

^i don’t have any money. here. have this.

He hands you a small amount of weed. You’re silently thrilled. You don’t smoke – haven’t really since college, but your resources are all dried up. You couldn’t score weed now even if you tried. He’s basically gone and forgets about you even before you think to say thanks.

But you’re anxious now. You’re sitting there with your “dinner” and think about how much you must have fucked up to get to where you’re at right now. You don’t have a bad life – it’s pretty privileged, in fact. But you never really fucking FREAKED OUT! You never really cut loose. You were always pretty controlled, and now you’ve got a pretty controlled life. God, kids these days… I need to be more confident.

So luckily your anxiety has an outlet in this weed the kid just gave you. There’s a head shop right around the corner – seriously, that’s convenient. You buy a little pipe – it’s expensive though, there’s a lot you could be doing with that money.

You don’t really have anybody to smoke with. They’ve all got wives and mortgages now. The thought of going back to your apartment to smoke alone depresses you. Instead you go to the park. It’s not a true park – it’s an extra wide boulevard tucked into the neighborhood. You’re cold but the sky is a violent lavender-orange firestorm. You take a hit from the pipe and you’re just silent. You take a larger breath of fresh air – even larger than the breath before. Silent.

You could work it out in your head, but that would only make it worse. (should I have done that? why wasn’t I more wild as a kid? does that kid really grow up to be me?)

Alone, you think about the last relationship you were in. God, I loved that woman. Why couldn’t I make it work? You think about the sex, all the confusion. God, I hope I did everything in my power to make it right. I hope I treated her the way she deserved to be treated.

That’s something I could be proud of.

Kid is a friggin’ bad-ass! For all of his self-deprecation (he’s the first to let you know when he’s got “a monster Z” on his back) he’s got to be one of the most confident people I know. It’s really inspiring.

I think I sometimes confuse confidence with self-praise. “If I tell myself good things about myself, then I must be demonstrating confidence.” But that’s totally off-base. Confidence is unshakable comfort in your own skin. Both ‘the good’ and ‘the bad.’ (‘Confidence’ and ‘comfortable’ share the same root, ‘con,’ from the latin ‘equivalent to.’)

It’s a way of seeing yourself. It’s a way of experiencing yourself. It’s a way to breath unconsciously, seeing yourself naked, a bit scrawny, and perfect too.

Per CNN:

The church, led by pastor Fred Phelps, believes God is punishing the United States for “the sin of homosexuality” through events including soldiers’ deaths. Members have traveled the country shouting at grieving families at funerals and displaying such signs as “Thank God for dead soldiers,” “God blew up the troops” and “AIDS cures fags.”

And yet, the tone of all the reports seems to be that “intolerance wins.” They seem to be confused. They seem to think that tolerance means tolerance of things that are tolerable. But that’s wrong. Tolerance means to be tolerable, even of the intolerable.

“But Ross,” you’re saying, “this church is a bunch of friggin’ idiots” (your phrase, not mine). And also, “Didn’t they hear that NASA recently killed God? And besides, I hate people who hate people. Surely we can just stifle them a bit. Or maybe God can prove he loves mankind by killing the whole lot of ‘em” (again, your phrase, not mine).

No. Tolerance is tolerance of all – not just what aligns with our prejudices.

And then you’re all: “Oh… I get it. (wink, wink) Through our freaking compassion we’ll change these bastards. I’m cool with that.”

And… that’s not exactly right either. We have to love these [redacted] just as much as we feel for the family members of the killed service members – all the grief and anguish they’re going through, even without a bunch of [redacted] making a mess at their kid’s funeral.

Maybe through acceptance the real story will evolve and this small but loud minority will once again be relegated to the sidelines.

Amen.

Before I even opened my eyes this morning, I could tell he was back. I didn’t check right away – I was too groggy. I stumbled out of bed, caught my balance (you see, I sleep on the floor, so arising takes a bit more effort and concentration).

I guess he couldn’t see much because of the window covering – but when I pull it back, there’s his big black, glistening eye shrouded by his leathery head. That he can’t see much, that’s not the point. The point was that he was back – just like yesterday, just like the day before, just like every day since I’ve noticed him. Staring in my window. He only stares until I wake up – until I notice him. I can’t help not noticing him – he’s perpetually there.

I wonder if I were to die in my sleep – would he keep waiting for me to wake? Would he notice and amble away pleasantly like he does now? Would he know ahead of time and not show up? I don’t think anybody interests him as much as me.

An elephant shouldn’t be in Chicago. Not in the winter, not ever. I don’t suppose I have anything to do with this? So what, my bedroom window’s at elephant eye-level? So what?

When I walk outside and say “shoo!” he barely notices. He just slowly turns his behemoth body and walks away. I tell you, I don’t know where he goes the rest of the day. He’s got no interest in me other than for the waking.

I’ve never seen an elephant wake. I’ve never seen an elephant sleep. It must be something to see, though.

When you catch an elephant looking in your window – there’s very little you can do, really. Other than wake each morning, anticipating (hoping, even?) seeing an elephant.

One day you’ll wake up and he’ll be gone. And saddened, you’ll think, I wonder what it was so fascinated the elephant about my waking? You pour your morning coffee, sit by the stove’s fire, eat a cup of irish oats… what was it made him so curious?

The Buddha recites in the Dhammapada: “All beings tremble before violence. / All fear death. / All love life. // See yourself in others. / Then whom can you hurt? / What harm can you do?”

Staring in the eyes of my torturer, would I be looking in my own eyes? As he removes my fingernail with rusty pliers, could I feel his hands as mine? With all of the violence in Libya (and untold violence in Africa), how can you fight violence with peace? How do you not only look at your enemy as yourself, but also give this vision to your enemy?

Thich Quang Duc had an answer during the Vietnam War (or, as the Vietnamese call it, the American War):

Can you see yourself ablaze in his compassion?

I pray for peace. I dedicate every moment of my practice to peace. Sacred rage: I want to lash out to get this peace.

Only humans are capable of attaining peace – not animals not gods… humans! It’s our ability to experience both joy and sorrow that enables this peculiar satisfaction. But these… these dehumanizing atrocities… this is hell on earth.

Photos share, videos capture real time – and the Libyan protesters beg the world to wake up! I’m awake but I’m impotent to do anything! What can I do?

There is no answer. So I cry, thinking about these people – fighting for what I’ve got. Fighting for something that I never had to struggle for.

I want to believe that my compassion is enough. I want desperately to believe that my unflinching commitment to their freedom is enough… but it isn’t. It’s never enough. How can I help when all I do is sit on my mat and cushion and dedicate the peace that I cultivate to the world? I don’t need this peace, I say, the world does. Give it to the world and I will be without. Let the world have it and I will struggle. Please, anything, but make this stop.

The protesters ask that we share their tragedy… this is all I can do. I share it in this post, I share it in meditation. Let us be human, goddamnit!

Let us be human…