Dear Grandmother:

I am sitting here at my beach house feeling that longing I often get when contemplating the ocean’s vastness and the loved ones I have lost.  I am ready to write a new book now, I want to tell your life story, and so I must ask you what you’d like the world to know about you…

To me, you were a hero, a bodhisattva, and a stand-in for an absent mother.  From the beginning you withstood great loss and pain:  never cradled by your own mother, watching your own gentle face sink and change form from a strange paralysis, a marriage of convenience when you turned away from love, and a myriad of physical assaults ending in total blindness.  I remember that when that door to sight was closed, you expressed rage at your irrevocable helplessness for the first and last time.  You taught me table manners, curiosity of mind, generosity toward all those less fortunate, you taught me dominoes and hearts, and the love of adventure in far away places and speaking a foreign language… I sat at your table and grew up into a marvelously civilized young girl.  Did I ever tell you how grateful I was for all you gave to me?  The largest gift of all was your love — you sat on my bed at night and read the Greek myths, held my little hand in yours, and then left the nightlight on.  You made me feel safe.

If you were to write your own story, what would you want known about your life?  Perhaps the devotion you had for your stern father and your beloved nanny Goldie who attempted the unspeakable task of imparting a mother’s love to you, the gratitude you had for the loving black servants in your home in Charleston, and the piano your father encouraged you to play.  Yes, the piano. You gave yourself to that, didn’t you, practicing energetically not only because that was expected, but also because you needed to express beauty — your unique beauty.  Would you like the world to know that you rejected true love because embracing a married man was socially unacceptable, and then you married a safe and chilly business man because that was what was expected?  You never admitted this, but I knew. Eventually I came to mirror a few of your choices… Turns out you were scared of intense romantic love – remember that you told me “passion is messy”?  I didn’t believe you then, but I think do now.  Messy and beautiful.

You loved one son more than the other and in the end he broke your heart.  But most people didn’t know that.  Motherhood was hard for you, and besides you were expected to have a nanny, and then there was grandfather’s belt…  Young boys were hit, humiliated, and you could do little to stop it.  Yours was a patriarchal world.  I always saw you as the tough matriarch who could weather everything for the sake of the family’s survival: heart attacks, cancer, and a deeply disappointed heart.  Did you see yourself as a survivor?  How did you do this?

Please tell me more.  Tell me what you’d like me to say about you.

Still missing you deeply after all these years,

Mag

On my Zen calendar today Timothy Ferris (whom I have no knowledge of) wrote the above words.  They have stayed with me all day.

Here is what “never perfect” looks like to me:  not the fact that my feet are flat and deformed looking or that I have varicose veins in my legs, or that the inside of my house needs repainting … no, “never perfect” right now means to me that we have a human being running for president who has defied and trashed the rules of civility, who has lied, and spewed homophobic words into the national conversation.  And what’s tragic about this imperfect scene is that a large portion of our population are following along behind this unstable demagogue.  I am aware of a roiling and restless frustration in my body and my inability to just let it be.  But then what?

The next line of Mr. Ferris’ offering reads:  “‘Someday’ is a disease that will take your dreams to the grave with you.”  Ahhh … yes …  Why?  Because “someday” is out there – it doesn’t exist.  To lay our visions and aspirations in the “someday basket” is to file them away and allow them to wither.  So, what are we to do?  Return to what is going on with our hearts and minds now, and try to find a way to spread our vision far and wide.  But we must do it with kindness and respect, remembering the Buddha’s teachings on “Right Speech.”  Right speech applies not only to the spoken word, but the thoughts we all carry.  We must find a way to parse our thoughts about injustice and suffering and humane governing so that they may be grasped by those who choose to follow in Mr. Trump’s footsteps.  But how?  I have no clue.  I do know that there has to be an intention to do good, both in our private worlds, and in the world at large.  We must find the core of the intention and hold on to it for dear life, because that is how we help effect change.

Mr. Ferris concludes his little piece by writing:  “If it’s important to you and you want to do it ‘eventually,’ just do it and correct course along the way.”  Yes.  We must be sensitive to the right moment to speak our truths, but we must be committed to speak that truth now.  We have a relatively short amount of time before this country elects a new president, and if we hang around waiting for the conditions to become more “perfect,” we may find the country in a very perilous and dark place.

I am speaking about seeing and standing up for our highest truth, not shrinking.  I am speaking about summoning dedication and energy for a process that often seems broken, because we in fact love this land we inhabit.  This highly imperfect country needs the wisdom of all its citizens…  I am writing these words now because I am trying to summon this dedication, energy, truth, and humanity in myself, so that I can look in the mirror, feel comfortable, and know that I’ve done all I can to create change for the good in this moment … because that is all we have.

I thank Mr. Timothy Ferris for the courage and inspiration of his words.

I have been wondering a lot lately just why people become addicted to travel.  In my memoir, which I call Bowing to Elephants, I identify myself as a “travel junkie,” I see the image of a lonely being like myself who simply must get that business class seat on a plane, that wonderful hotel room with a good view somewhere, and keep on going.  But why?

Paul Theroux, renowned travel writer, explained that he led a traveling life so that he could know himself more fully.  Seeing oneself in an alien context allows you to begin to grasp who you are, I think.  You  (we)  are unique, this is true — for instance, I have an insatiable love for artichokes, James Joyce, zany shoes that never fit and hats I’ll never wear, and I’ve been known to down a pint of Guinness at an Irish pub, which is not exactly the manifestation of femininity in Ireland …  And when I’m in Vietnam, Burma, or even Italy, and see myself as I am being seen, quirks and all, it often brings a smile to my face.  A sense of o.k.-ness.  Different, but o.k.

One of the things I know travel offers me is that reassuring sense that all humans are in the same family, whether we’re slurping Vietnamese Pho, Italian white truffles, burgers, or Indian curry.  And because I grew up alienated and alone in an adult world, this being a part of a sprawling humanity means a lot to me.  I think it’s called connection.  I’ve always loved the idea that seemingly disparate elements are in fact related; I pursued a masters degree in Comparative Literature in my forties so I could explore my own comparative thinking, and I saw the wild parallels between the heroes of such ostensively different cultures as Greece, Russia, France, Ireland, and the United States (we do have the cowboy, after all!).

We need heroes, who, like spiritual leaders, are necessary to remind us to stay on the path that is righteous, treat one another humanely and not inflict harm.  They exemplify our highest ideal.  Their job is a difficult one, and it involves much traveling, meeting of challenges, and facing death.  Some of my personal heroes:  my grandmother, the Buddha, Christ (yes, and this from a former atheist), Pablo Neruda, James Joyce, JS Bach, William Shakespeare, Henri Matisse, the Dalai Lama, Robin Williams, Aung San Suu Kyi, Barack Obama, and I could go on and on.  My Golden Retriever Francesca who tended me and my heart for over 15 years would also make this list.  And all my grandchildren who, like my current dog Peaches, show me how to be in the moment.

So we’re back to this — this “in the moment” thing that is so precious.  Teachers are everywhere on the path – we don’t really need to go too far, do we?  But, boy that zooming off into the night sky to land somewhere far away on an entirely different day is still a magnificent thrill.  New doors opening all the time.  New learning.  And connection.

Who would have guessed that I would finally find rest in the "city that never sleeps"?  Who would have imagined that I would get primo seating to see Placido Domingo at the Met on my last day in rainy New York?  Or that I couldn't cry at the 9/11 Memorial, but felt tears of joy at the splashy joyful "American in Paris" on Broadway?  Who could possibly entertain a glass of wine for $25 or a simple steak for $45?  Yes -- all true -- New York appears to be the city where the unexpected is alive and well, and you need your "don't know mind" with you.

One of the great gifts of this adventure was my arriving at a place of rest in my bed at night, dog tired from all our trekking during the day.  Since my insomnia started last fall I have felt plagued by this affliction of no rest, and my brain became ragged and wonky and silly under the influence of sleeping pills.  And the second night I was in this vibrating city, midtown Manhattan, I turned off the light without taking my dose, and I slept.  Granddaughter Riley was communing with her Kindle close by, the bed was comfortable, the curtains drawn, and the room quiet.  And I slept.  Less less than a couple of weeks since I swallowed medication, I felt like boasting and shouting in delight as I opened my eyes to a bright new day

I walked and I walked in New York, and my cranky tendonitis softened.  How was this?  It was cold as hell, and I had no coat, and yet I escorted this young woman through the city and felt excited at the adventure of it all.  I was back in a place that I knew, I was with this girl whom I loved and wanted to love me, and we were looking at art, theater, food, and finally opera... How could I not feel happiness?

I think it was always about love.  Love of an old hometown, of art, of the memories from when I was Riley's age growing up in New York, and of this young girl on the brink of becoming a woman.  And perhaps her love for me...  When love is present, we are are safe and comfortable.  And when there's safety, we can rest, we can let it all go.  In this hysterical and magical city, I could let go.  And not work so hard anymore to manage my life.

The memories are still clear, the warm feelings remaining in my heart.  I'm glad I live in a less complicated city like San Francisco, but I"m happy to have been a citizen of Manhattan back in the 60's when everyone's life was more innocent.  It makes sense to relive, to remember times of hope when we're faced with the kind of dark suffering that surrounds us today.  Humans are complicated, ignorant, and greedy, but there is also love which we can see when we slow down and get quiet.

I am grateful and hopeful ... I can sleep and laugh and play and write again.

The dog is asking me a question

and I have no answer.

He dashes through the countryside and asks me

wordlessly,

and his eyes

are two moist question marks, two wet

inquiring flames,

but I do not answer

because I haven’t got the answer.

I have nothing to say.

Dog and man:  together we roam

the open countryside.

Leaves shine as

if someone

had kissed them

one by one,

orange tress

rise up from the earth

raising

minute planetariums

in trees that are as rounded

and green as the night,

while we roam together, dog and man

sniffling everything, jostling clover

in the countryside of Chile,

cradled by the bright fingers of September

The dog makes stops,

chases bees,

leaps over restless water,

listens to far-off

barking,

pees on a rock,

and presents me the tip of his snout

as if it were a gift:

it is the freshness of his love,

his message of love.

And he asks me

with both eyes:

why is it daytime?  why does night always fall?

why does spring bring

nothing

in its basket

for wandering dogs

but useless flowers,

flowers and more flowers?

This is how the dog

asks questions

and I do not reply.

Together we roam,

man and dog bound together again

by the bright green morning,

by the provocative empty solitude

in which we alone,

exist,

this union of dog and dew

or poet and woods,

For these two companions,

for these fellow-hunters,

there is no lurking fowl

or secret berry

but only birdsong and sweet smells,

a world moistened

by night’s distillations,

a green tunnel and then

a meadow,

a gust of orangey air,

the murmurings of roots,

life on the move,

breathing and growing,

and the ancient friendship,

the joy

of being dog or being man

fused in a single beast

that pads along on

six feet,

wagging

its dew-wet tail.

I wanted to share this genius poet’s words this morning so soon after my morning time in the park with Peaches the dog … I wanted to look again at the essence of man and dog that he speaks of.

I don’t write poetry, in fact I’m afraid of it.  It seems too difficult all this distilling of the senses, and yet Mr. Neruda makes it look easy somehow.  That’s what great artists do … they make the difficult look easy.  Reading this poem allows me to see this man and his dog and get what that unique relationship is.  Reading this poem makes me want to try to pare down and shape what I think and feel and deliver it to the world: those gems that lurk inside my mind and heart.

If anyone reading this has further thoughts on the writing of poetry, or simply writing as though you were a poet, or Neruda, or even dogs for that matter, please share them.  This could be an interesting conversation!

I have a card on my desk that says "The Way Out is the Way In," a beautiful little printed woodcut showing a soulful face with a bird swooping overhead.  The eyes of this face are somewhat hollowed and heavy lidded, a little weary looking, which is the way I've been feeling lately.  Chogyam Trumpa Rinpoche wrote this, and it's these words I want to explore.

In all the years I've been meditating on retreat, I have heard different iterations of this saying, and it wasn't until the last week in October when I sat the Fall retreat at Spirit Rock that I allowed myself to accept this painful (necessary) inward journey.  I understood that no matter how many remedies I tried to cook up for my loneliness, restlessness, confusion, and fear, I still had to look inside myself to care for myself, make myself feel better.  What I discovered inside amidst the confusion and fog from lack of sleep was a deep sadness, an aching of loss for my grandmother and mother whom I've loved and lost, and a relentless cruel self critic that I have named Hortense.  Alongside this unlikely mix I could feel a heart beating and that made my entire body feel warm; I touched my chest and heard these words, "May I be happy and peaceful." It was like a prayer in the night.

When I couldn't sleep at night, I pulled the blankets up around me and breathed deeply through my whole body in the darkness, and when I felt the pinching in my leg and ankle from my old injury while walking to the dining hall, I tried to send kindness and compassion to my body, instead of spite.  When my body twitched in restlessness on the cushion, I simply saw it as restlessness in the body, not anything inherently wrong in me.  One of our teachers said one night, "You are not your own fault," and the more I replayed that in my mind, the more understanding I found.  We inhabit bodies we didn't choose, and these bodies do a wide variety of things that we have no control over, and then they age, and then they die.  The bodies are NOT who we are.  They are our temporary home...  We need to tend them, care for them, and we need to locate within this bodily home our compassionate heart that says, "I forgive you for harm caused, for your inherent imperfection..."  We are such a complex mosaic of dark and light, the throbbing of love and the aching of despair.

This last month has been a time more of darkness than light, but now I'm trying to reach inside and find the warmth.  The numbers of hours I haven't slept, the confusion and anger and fear that has come as I begin to feel cognitively impaired, the different remedies I've tried that have not done their magic, and the sense of floating through a surreal dream that has resulted from all of it -- these have colored my time, dampened my spirits.  But there have been a couple of gifts along the way which have given me hope and energy:  my visit to the dignified old temple-like Columbarium here in San Francisco where I hope to have a niche for my ashes behind a lovely little glass door in a room where sunlight pours in through stained glass, and then a visit to Oregon to celebrate the impending arrival of a great grandson, a gathering where I was surrounded by daughters, granddaughters, other relations and friendly souls hugging one another and laughing, while a gentle cool rain fell outside.  It had been so long since I had seen rain, and I remember putting my face up to it and smiling, feeling the cobwebs being washed away.  Within a space of  a couple of days I witnessed my own final resting place and the prospect of a brand new child in my family whom I will probably know only briefly.  Death and life all felt, and deeply.

I am softened by all of this and there is now more space in my heart.  In can go here when sleep refuses to come.  It is my real home.