Nowhere else but here.

Both Veri-husband and I have itchy feet. Throughout our twenties we moved incessantly, always looking for a new place with different features, the change meaning letting go of some of the tiresome drawbacks of wherever we lived.

During my November trip to Arizona, I gulped in the warm sunshine of a place I once called home, relishing late sunsets and memories of a dry heat that swathed me as I walked outdoors, and of course, endless sunshine that forbade bad moods to linger for very long.

Upon returning to a Maine winter, I started to wonder down a familiar mental path of imaginings… no more freezing winters, no more chopping ice, veri-husband could ride his scooter year-round. And, of course, the enticing change a move brings.

Then, after the second big snowfall of the season we strapped on our snowshoes and took the dogs for a walk at dusk (which, of course, is 4pm this time of year). The snow was pristine, a smooth blanket of bright white coating everything in a virginal wrap. As we walked along the river, watching rich lavender streak across an azure sky brightened by a glowing fire of a sunset, colors only seen a few months of the year, I realized once again how pretty our frozen north is.

There is nothing like living within four strong seasons, each bursting forth and demanding to be heard and recognized. For every freezing winter there is the thrill of the first blooms, and for every sweltering summer there are the cool, crisp days of autumn dazzling us as we say goodbye to warmer climes until the spring.

What would Buddha do?

As I mentioned perviously, I have a vague plan of including posts about my study of Tibetan Buddhism, and possibly start a second blog about what I’m learning.

I struggled, though, with how to begin. A rundown of what I do at my local center? Take a page from What Makes You Not a Buddhist to talk about some of the more practical stuff?

I’ve decided I’m going to write about what I see as a definition of Buddhism. In short, a layman, ex-Catholic’s view of it.

Essentially, Buddhism is about ego, and ridding yourself of all the things related to your ego. Sounds simple? It is, until you start to look at how our ego has a starring role in every decision we make, every emotion we feel, and every despair we suffer. Suffering is another big concept in Buddhism, because by getting rid of all the attachments we have associated with our ego, we can focus on relieving the suffering of others.

Lineages in Tibetan Buddhism focus on either practice or study. The lineage I have been studying under is Karma Kagyu, which focuses on practice. Practice, as I see it, involves meditating, especially samatha, or ‘calm abiding’ meditation. Essentially, samatha is quieting your mind, striving to quiet your thoughts so that you live – even briefly – in the moments between those racing thoughts we live with. Once they’ve calmed, you can find some peace and start to shed your ego.

I think I’ll keep it simple for my first post. Because I think it’s important, as I take you with me on my journey, to always remember the basic idea that happiness comes when we find a way to rid ourselves of our ego, our need to almost inherently put our emotional and physical self front and center all the time, to give into the wild buzzing of thoughts that constantly play through our minds a break whenever possible.

Wonderfulling my life.

I don’t have a lot of Christmas traditions. I’ve moved too much, been bah humbug too much, been too far removed from my early childhood to have any consistent traditions. But there is one thing I always enjoy doing at Christmastime: Watching It’s a Wonderful Life.

It started in college. I had never seen it before, much to the shock of most of the people I came across. But one night I was snuggled in front of the TV and it came on. I love the 1940s – the culture, the music, the silly turns of phrase and rising optimism. The movie charmed me, and in the following years I always tried to catch it on TV. I didn’t always, and some years I forgot all together, but it was always a cozy way to get into the holiday. I toyed with just buying the movie to watch whenever convenient, but I think the charm of the movie is that it’s a tradition to watch on TV, and like the Charlie Brown holiday shows there is some sort of comfort in watching each new generation forgo their usual hi-tech, action-packed fare for something sentimental and passed down. And part of me believes the magic is watching with the rest of the country, not at some pre-determined time at a convenience to my schedule. That sort of thinking doesn’t belong in the ’60s or the ’40s and is vastly inappropriate for these programs.

But this year I didn’t get to watch it. A terrible ice storm coated the northeast in three inches of ice, and we lost power for three days, including the day NBC aired it. I was saddened, but I had bigger worries. My house was hovering around 38 degrees, putting my water pipes in jeopardy. We had to eat out every meal, but return to our cold cave to make sure the dogs were okay. I had to do everything in the few hours of sunlight, most of which included getting ready to weather a long, cold night. By the third day, when veri-husband and I went out to breakfast — the novelty of eating out losing its appeal and quickly becoming an expensive nuisance — I felt dispirited and disoriented, struggling to form words and trying to put together enough wits to figure out where to trek my laundry, and where would be the best place to spend a few hours grading papers.

I came home from breakfast, walked the dogs, and sat on the floor to read, trying not to wallow or dwell. Though inconvenienced, there were some benefits to no power. My house and neighborhood was quiet enough to invoke a sort of mellow calm, the humming of appliances and rushing to and fro had been hushed. Being grossly outside the realm of inconvenienced, I no longer expected convenience. It’s interesting how much we come to depend and demand convenience because we are so used to it. When the notion of convenience is taken away, suddenly there is patience and an ability to just be in the moment and know things will happen when they will happen.

But I was still down, frazzled, distraught. As I cradled my book and tried to find a patch of sunlight in the room, suddenly there was a click. The lamp went on, and I looked and saw the VCR flashing its 12:00. I sped around the house, confirming what I saw, and noticed a Comp truck out in the street finishing up repairs.

I dashed around the house, suddenly grateful, thankful, full of respect and cherishing of the appliances. The stupid washing machine that tears at my clothes? I love you. The fridge that sucks up too much energy and seeks out dirt to cling to it? I’ve never been so happy to see you alive and humming. The stove with the burnt bulb that’s impossible to keep clean? Your glowing clock is a comfort. I love and appreciate every little thing it does.

As I mirrored the closing scenes of the movie I couldn’t help but think: it’s a wonderful life.

Alive again and gone.

I’ve been faithful to Grey’s Anatomy even though it hasn’t lived up to its first few seasons’ potential. In the past few years it seems to have taken a step away from honesty and strength of character, and the quirkiness that once only peppered the show pushed aside this emotional core, leaving the characters looking hapless and flat.. So, like post people, I rolled my eyes at the newest story arc: one of the doctor’s dead boyfriend/patients comes back to the dead and she can talk to and touch him. Ridiculous.

But it’s happened to me.

Not in a supernatural or gearing-up-for-a-brain-tumor-plot way. No, my experience is tad more mundane, but still no less awe-inspiring to me.

My father suddenly died when I was 12. That night I had a dream where I got to have a last conversation with him, only I couldn’t touch him. We talked, but then became overcome and hugged him and he disappeared forever.

So you could imagine my shock five years later when he walked into my cousin’s wedding. I’m not crazy, it wasn’t him of course, but his brother whom I’d only met a few times when I was very small. Though he wasn’t my dad, he was such a close replica that all I could do was stare. It wasn’t just his face, or his hair, though those were similar, but his hands: the deep nail beds, the slight freckling. In the years after my dad’s death I saw those hands again and again in my memory, holding up the number “two” — the last time I’d seen him I’d been begging for three packets of gum and he telling me I could only buy two, a silly argument but one that stays in my mind so clearly only because it was our last. And here were those fingers again, punctuating his speech just like I remember my dad doing.

And it wasn’t just the hands. His nose, slightly thicker at the end, with the same sprinkling of broken capillaries against olive skin. A thin bottom lip, a voice that that was soft but firm, a kind twinkle in his eye. I can’t say he spoke of the same things as my dad, because I heard very little of what he said. I sat and drank in all the hundred little parts of my dad scattered over this slightly older sibling. Things I thought I had said goodbye to forever had suddenly come alive again and were right in front of me, if only for a brief time.

As the years wore on, I got to watch my dad grow old. Here and there at family events my uncle would fly out and I’d get to see what my dad would have looked like at 65…68…73…During these family gatherings I’d try not to follow my uncle around too much, but I would be sure to ask him open-ended questions and just sit back and watch him talk, watch him gesture, watch him breathe.

This uncle died last week. It was a short illness, and thankfully not very painful. I’m not overcome with sadness since I only met him a handful of times. But I do feel a bit of sadness because my father has disappeared again.

Goodbye, NaBloPoMo!

It is with sadness that I write this post.

When I signed up for NaBloPoMo, I was excited to get back to blogging. I liked the challenge and it has motivated me well. Unlike last year, I have never struggled to find something to write about. It hasn’t always been profound or even a bit interesting, but as each day has gone by, the words have come out easier than they have in months.

However, throughout the month I’ve had this coming week hanging over my head. Tomorrow, at 3:45 a.m. I will leave to visit my cousins in Arizona, and will return on the last day of November. When I signed up for NaBloPoMo, I had a vague plan to perhaps bring my laptop along on this trip, maybe find some access around the hotel, or even blog from my iPhone. Very short blog posts.

But I’m not going to do it. See, earlier this year I found out the time with my cousin was numbered, numbered to a ridiculous and cruel amount of time. Now that time doesn’t have a medical limit, but it doesn’t mean time with her, and all my family, isn’t still numbered.

I’m toying with the idea of starting a second blog about my Buddhism study and practice, so perhaps that will more than make up for my time away. I’ll try to write on the last day, a late November 30th post, but for me, but is the end of the line for NaBloPoMo. Thanks to everyone who read daily, and kept me going each and every day.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder

My husband and I aren’t spending Thanksgiving together.

There. I said it. The horror.

When I’ve told people my Thanksgiving plans, I’ve been met with concerned looks and lamentation that my holiday is ruined.

I love my husband, but I’m not sure why there seems to be a sense that I must be attached to his hip at all times. I enjoy his company immensely, and I’m surprised by how much our lives have joined, so much so that without him I’d not only be devastated, but lost, adrift and feeling only like part of a whole.

But still, I like time to myself. I like time with my friends, my family, all the relationships I had before him still hold on to a dynamic that just isn’t the same when partners are involved. My husband is not American, so Thanksgiving holds no real meaning for him. I suggested he take the time to visit with his family and I can enjoy Thanksgiving with mine, like I have done my whole life. After our plans were set, I got the opportunity to travel to see family I love, and I jumped at it.

So, tomorrow we’ll be boarding planes going in opposite directions. I will miss him terribly and look forward to the sweetness of reunion. But I’ll also enjoy my five days, as he will. And that’s a good thing.

Christopher Columbus never saw these.

These are things we know. They aren’t ignored, it’s information that makes the news quite regularly. But when it’s laid out so clearly and so colorfully, it’s shocking.

I haven’t been able to get these maps out of my head. NPR had an article on All Things Considered whereby a place called World Mapper has created maps of the world based on parameters such as income, car export/import, population. I always knew the maps we grew up with were skewed to favor the western, mostly white countries, but I don’t think I realized just how skewed our world really is. I mean, I *know* it is, but to see it so clearly and undeniably. I found it a little nauseating, like the world, quite literally, was turned upside down.

Here’s a map of the World’s wealth in 2015.

Here’s Vegetables Consumed.

Or how about Negative Savings?

Or Cases of tuberculosis?

Illiterate women?

Goodbye, peeps. Goodbye, holidays.

Today at CVS I saw something horrible: Christmas peeps.

Growing up, each holiday had its unique and special type of sweet: Halloween had candy corn and once-a-year mini versions of all of your favorite candy bars. Christmas had peanut butter cup Christmas trees. I loved these decadent morsels because they were bigger and thicker than regular peanut butter cups, and just big enough to be satisfying without getting a bellyache. Valentine’s Day brought heart-shaped boxes of chocolate varieties, where most kids learn how to use charts and practice long-term planning as they figured out which chocolate-covered nugget they’d eat first: eat the best ones first? Save them for last? Not to mention the negotiation skills needed to decide who got the chocolate-covered cherry and how many good chocolates were worth the sacrifice. Easter ended candy-season, with huge Cadbury eggs of gooey sugar. But the absolute best was saved for last: Peeps. Peeps don’t try to be anything fancy. They break candy to it’s basic form: sugar covered sugar. Bliss.

What made each of these candies special was that they only showed up for a few short weeks before their holiday. You looked forward to them all year, and perhaps got only one or two tastes of them before they were taken off the shelves for eleven and a half long months. They may not be the best-tasting candy in the world, but these sweets always heralded the fun and breaking-of-the-rules that comes with holidays.

Now those candies are available weeks and maybe even months before the holiday. By the time Easter rolls around, I’ve already had more than enough Cadbury eggs, and I’m a little less excited about waiting a year to have them again.

And now, versions of these candies are starting to arrive in different forms during other times of the year. Candy corn in Christmas flavors (peppermint — ew). Reeses rolls out a big peanut butter cup version for every holiday, just dresses it up in a different theme. Cadbury eggs are practically year-round, and you can get tiny versions of candy bars any time you wish. But now, the final straw has fallen. Peeps year round.

It makes me feel bad for kids today. Like most things, they don’t have to wait for anything, they don’t get to feel the joy in the slavish wait for unique holiday treats and the thrill of seeing them arrive in the stores close to the time of the holiday. Instead, it’s all right there for them. Everything but the warm feelings.

Palin this.

It seems people are quite up in arms over a recent video depicting Sarah Palin giving an interview with a turkey being slaughtered in the background. In some places I’ve seen it, the actual slaughter was blurred to…protect the innocent?

Again, I’m reminded about the hoopla over Palin engaging in aerial hunting of wolves. Inhumane. Disgusting. Appalling.

Really?

Ten billion animals are slaughtered for food every year. That means, in Britain, 26 animals are slaughered every second. Yet people are up in arms when they are suddenly confronted by animal cruelty and murder. I can never quite wrap my head around it: meat is fine, just don’t tell me where it comes from. Okay, maybe I can come to accept that; our culture is based around meat. But to then get bent out of shape to see animals ruthlessly murdered? Face the music: you participate in this every single day. For some, every single meal.

Maybe these headlines, though perplexing, are good. It will keep up awareness of the horror of our diets, and perhaps make someone sitting in judge of Palin perhaps take a small look inwards and see what kind of impact they have on those cute little animals squirming to be free.

It’s 7:28…

…and I’m sleepy.

Even years after living in the northern part of America, I still struggle with the sun setting so early. I’m not necessarily a victim of S.A.D.D., a disorder that seems to have ravaged people only in the last 20 years. I don’t get depressed or crave carbs. I just get…sleepy. Early.

My routine is to come home from work, maybe walk the dogs, check the ‘net and what TiVo has recorded for me, and then make dinner. By then it’s around 7p.m. and my body starts to tell me to get ready for bed. I fight it, find something to do, but by 8 or 9 p.m. it feels like I’m staying up late, and my mind gets fuzzy and weary, everything is a fight through a fog of biological cave-man urges.

I don’t know what the answer is. I’m not sure I believe that a lamp can reverse my need for sleep. I try to get outside and walk my dogs, to feel nature, but it doesn’t seem to work.

It’s now 7:54 (I’m watching TV as I type this). And I’d happily head up to bed right now.