Thoughts Happen

Dishtowel Memorial—Goodbye, Amber

 My hand halted a fraction of a second over the stack of towels in my kitchen drawer. I was about to pull out the dull sage green dishtowel that matched the stripes in its cream-colored hand towel mate, but I hesitated. Because they found another girl this week. Or rather, they found her body. The one who had been missing for so long, eyes peering from behind a shock of glossy brown hair asking “Have You Seen Me?” for over a year, was finally heard, calling her seekers to a remote, rocky grave near the Pala Indian Reservation.

And I just couldn’t bear to pick up that drab dishtowel. It was too heavy.

Heavy with a parent’s grief, heavy with generations upon generations of brokenness that plays itself out in sickness and violence, heavy with the collective load of a community that wonders if it can absorb just one more sorrow.

So I reached beyond to its neighbor, red and orange, purple and green in its vibrancy. And the colors said, “Believe in me” and I realized that I did.

And I hung the dishtowel which was more than a dishtowel on the oven door next to the pale hand towel with its heavy sage-colored stripes, to remember.

And then I realized—her name was Amber.

Salt of the Earth—Goodbye, Chelsea

A 17-year-old girl, Chelsea King, went missing last week after leaving on a run from a neighborhood east of here; her parents were on TV, pleading for any information. Search parties went out for days, and then the headline in the paper. Arrest made—man charged with murder and rape, although they still didn’t know where the girl was.

The more I meditate, the more I feel things. And it’s damn uncomfortable. No wonder more people don’t do it.

In the past few months I’ve noticed a shift in my perception. I think my boundaries are starting to blur, like the salt paintings I remember doing as a kid. We’d wet a piece of paper, sprinkle salt all over it until it stuck, dab a moistened brush into our watercolors and lightly paint onto the salt surface. Any design we made would instantly expand, the colors wicking through the salt for a blurry kaleidoscopic effect.

I feel like I’ve got too much salt on me.

 I’m sick to my stomach. The girl is a straight-A student, plays French horn, is on the cross-country team. “The kind of girl who wants to change the world,” her father says on TV. I think of my own daughter, and I just can’t take it all in. The parents aren’t strangers, Those Poor People, but for a few moments, they are me, and she is my daughter. My daughter missing. Not as if she is my daughter. She is my daughter.

Other people are seeming less Other to me lately. We watched the closing ceremony of the Winter Olympics from Vancouver on TV, the day after the girl went missing, and a choir from Sochi, Russia, all tuxes and deep blue gowns, came out to sing their national anthem as part of the passing-the-flag ceremony. Before, I would have thought, “Look at those Russians,” but what went across my mind this time was, “Aren’t people interesting.” Their sapphire blue started to bleed all over me.

Yesterday, they find the body, buried in a shallow grave at the edge of a lake. Oh God, is all I can think. The Parents. But sadly, they have become Those Poor People again. My defenses have kicked in, and once again they are separate from me. What a loss.

Photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/katietegtmeyer/ / CC BY 2.0

My name is Louise, and I'm addicted to the Olympics

 I love, love, love, the Olympics. Not for the athletic feats themselves, but for the stories; I’m addicted. Say what you will about NBC, but I love the cheesy human interest stories they throw in to the broadcasts. I love hearing how the athletes have overcome some obstacle or another and what drives them to do what they do, skiing through pain, skating through uncertainty, laying it all on the line. If the Olympics were just filmed athletic competitions, I probably wouldn’t bother watching—it’s not like I ever watch figure skating or ski jumping any other time.

The Norwegian skier who came back from a wicked crash in ‘07 to win gold in the Super-G, the French figure skater in the men’s competition who was found abandoned as a baby in Brazil only nine days old, the Chinese pairs skaters who skated together for 18 years and recently got married, coming back to claim the gold medal that was the one thing that had eluded them, or the Canadian ski cross racer back to the sport after nearly killing himself from alcoholism who risked it all and crashed going for gold rather than settle for a bronze medal—all of them fascinate me.

And it’s always interesting to follow an athlete who’s been on both sides of the slope, so to speak, heading up and heading down. Take Bode Miller: darling of ‘02 with 2 silver medals, excoriated in ‘06 with nothing to show but a bad attitude, and back in ‘10 to win a bronze, silver and gold by skiing like he’s actually really enjoying himself. It goes along with my theory that sport is a metaphor for life, where the moments that count are condensed into a few minutes or seconds, but reflect a lifetime of choices that went before.

I think I love the stories because part of me realizes that but for the flip-flop of a few pieces of DNA (or if you believe in reincarnation) I could be one of them. What choices would I make?

Photo of Bode Miller's Bronze Medal-winning start of the men's downhill courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/jonwick/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Facebook | Thoughts Happen: Salvation at Trader Joe's

Salvation at Trader Joe's facebook note

This week's post, "Salvation at Trader Joe's," was published as a note on the facebook fan page of Thoughts Happen. You don't need to be a fan of the facebook page to see the post, but if facebook is your thing, I'd love to see you there. The direct link to the fan page is http://www.facebook.com/ThoughtsHappen

The Art of Being Human

 A little over three years ago, I downloaded an audiobook to my iPod shuffle, pushed Play, and heard the author’s reassuring voice saying, “This very moment is the perfect teacher.” It felt like she was speaking directly to me. I’m sure I’m not the only one to have this experience upon hearing the opening words of Pema Chodron’s “When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times,” but the book seemed to be a custom-made prescription for my own difficult times, and it was on steady rotation on my iPod for months. I also eventually picked up the hardcopy too in order to refer to specific passages.

Chodron is an American-born Buddhist nun in the Shambhala tradition who teaches about the very human aspects of the spiritual journey, and emphasizes developing lovingkindness towards oneself and a “fiercely compassionate attitude” towards the pain and the joys we all experience. She also talks a lot about bravery and the courage of the spiritual warrior.

I didn’t feel like a spiritual warrior when I started listening to Chodron. I felt like someone who was trying to make it through the next day without falling into a pit. But I was intrigued by her approach to meditation, which didn’t emphasize benefits such as lowering your blood pressure, but rather that meditation can be a method of consciously training the mind in developing a nonjudgemental attitude of unconditional compassion towards ourselves. This is a very powerful thing, because in order to have compassion for others, we must first genuinely experience it from ourselves.

 So I tried it, and began meditating on my own at home. But eventually I felt the need to reach beyond my own living room, so I turned to the almighty Google and found the San Diego Shambhala Meditation Center. I took the plunge (developing my bravery!), showed up for a Sunday morning sitting meditation and was given initial instruction from a senior member there. To my relief and delight, the people I met at the Center were welcoming and friendly without being (as I had feared) hippieish or just plain weird. In fact, they were refreshingly normal, and I felt right at home.

A few months later I attended my first Shambhala Training weekend, titled “The Art of Being Human,” and the rest, as they say, is history. The Shambhala path has been incredibly enriching to both me and my husband, without claiming any kind of exclusive rights to the one best way. Plus, nobody has ever expected me to wear a shapeless robe, become a vegetarian or give up my Christian affiliation.

For readers in the San Diego area (or those willing to travel to our fair city), the San Diego Shambhala Meditation Center is again offering The Art of Being Human as a weekend training on March 5-7, 2010. From the brochure:

The program is a secular meditation training that develops fearlessness, confidence and openness toward ourselves and others. By looking directly at our own experience, we discover a continuity of awareness underlying the changing conditions that make up our lives. Connecting with this wholesome, wakeful presence enables us to experience life fully and directly. In Shambhala this is referred to as “basic goodness” and is seen as our birthright.

Making this opportunity known is one small offering I can give to the Center in gratitude for the thoughtful engagement, gentle encouragement and genuine camaraderie I have found there. Click here for more details

For those outside the San Diego area, the Shambhala.org web site lists directories of centers around the world.