Duality

When I was 18, I got a tattoo on the inside of my ankle. It's a very simple design, two small flowers intertwined. Any tattoo gotten at age 18 might seem childish and regrettable 16 years later. And it's true that the design is definitely less sophisticated than one I might choose now. Yet the meaning of the design still resonates with me and I actually don't regret having gotten it.

Throughout my senior year of high school, I doodled that image on notebooks while I should have been paying attention to teachers. Instead, I was often in my own thoughts. I had been reading a lot of Carl Jung and was fascinated with his ideas about individuation - the anima, animus, the shadow self, these parts of ourselves that we separate and keep divided. This division was familiar to me and the idea of some internal union was fascinating.

Astrologically speaking, I'm prone to duality. Geminis are described as being able to see two sides of one situation, to accept the duality of a situation as a matter of course. They tend to be analytical and enjoy an intellectual understanding of things on a conscious level. This very blog is proof of that in myself.
Further, my moon and ascendant are in Pisces which tends to explore the more emotional, psychological and subconscious elements of existence. Symbology and intuition are the preferred methods of understanding. Perhaps because of this side of me, I was able to be open to energywork and to accept it based on feeling as easily as if it was intellectually proven.

While it's easy for me to acknowledge both of these 'sides' of me, the difficulty is sometimes in figuring out the balance between the two and hopefully, the place where they merge into a whole. Perhaps because I've been interested in this for 16 years, I see it in many things. In spirituality, the balance between the 'self' and the 'universe' - how is it possible to feel part of everything without denying the individual experience?

The closest I've come to an answer has been through artistic expression. In literature, I'm always impressed by books that blend everyday details and interactions with deeper, existential truths. In art, I am struck by artists who express themselves individually and yet the product is something that resonates beyond those individual details and hits a universal experience that others can share.

Despite my analytical nature, it's my habit to prefer the gestalt to the details, the feeling over the 'proof'. Only recently have I begun to recognize that the little, seemingly mundane details are not at odds with the whole. They don't disprove it. They offer a physically manifested expression of it. Without the artists' perspective and individual expression, the universal remains remote. Without the details about a characters physical surroundings and daily interactions, his existential struggles are disembodied, ghostly.

I once wrote a blog post about sentimentality - how I put so much worth in the banana bread I make for my friends, the scarf my mother gave me. I think it's from this place that I do that. There is a desire to have a physical proof of an intangible experience- a blending of the outer and inner world. And yet my mindset has been that they are separate - that there is no merging point. There is banana bread and there is love. So when the banana bread burns or the scarf gets lost, I feel divided, unable to latch on to the world around me.

The trick in all of this seems to be recognizing that the details, the small things...they don't have to be perfect, godlike, some total representation of an entire experience. And they are also not trivial, meaningless and shallow. When I put too much importance in them or too little, I fail to recognize them as a merging point - one out of infinite possible, simple expressions of something larger.

I sometimes forget about this tattoo. Usually until some toddler points it out and asks me if I drew on myself. (next inevitable question, 'if you can draw on yourself, why can't I draw on myself?') I don't think it's a perfect representation of the idea behind it. I don't think it's necessarily beautiful in and of itself. And yet, I've never regretted it. In itself, it's ink on skin. It's also the physical manifestation of a question, an intangible experience I've had for 16 years.

I don't mind it being permanent, because this question, this effort to find a merging point, is indelible in the deepest, invisible parts of me.

Trust

During the refuge ceremony I wrote about in yesterday's post, each person taking refuge was given a name. The first word of the name is considered the overall strength of the sangha's generation. For my generation the word is 'Hue' which means wisdom. The second word is the individual's greatest weakness which, if addressed, could become their greatest strength. Maybe conversely, it could be their greatest strength, which if not harnessed and used properly, could become their greatest weakness. Mine is 'Tin' which means 'trust'. When my teacher gave me this name, he said that I should trust with wisdom but also trust in my wisdom.

Who needs a koan when there's stuff like this to think about?

In the energywork I practice, mistrust is held in the third eye chakra, which governs perception. Often, people who experienced betrayal or trauma hold a lot of mistrust in this chakra and their perception of others and the world is colored by that mistrust. I think the more trusting we were when we were betrayed/traumatized, the more mistrust is created.

And it makes sense.

As a kid I went through traumatic experiences where someone I trusted acted in a way that was completely unexpected and dangerous to me. And especially because they were two totally unrelated experiences, my perception afterwards was that pretty much everyone can become batshit crazy and/or violent with no warning, for no known reason. This mistrust protected me from then on, in a sense. Slightly distant and independent became my standard way of interacting with people. Which sucked, because in general I like people and am curious about them and I like feeling close to them. It just didn't seem safe.

Because this mistrust is in the third eye, there can be a habit of trying to read people, intuit how and when they are going to act in a way that will be threatening. But it clouds the actual perception of people, of situations. We end up seeing what we're afraid of, whether it's there or not, so we have a reason to stay mistrustful and keep our guard up.

In 2005, two years before I was officially given my Dharma name, I went through an extended crash course in trust. I was traveling around Europe for two months, working on organic farms. For some reason, the idea of living with total strangers, 1000s of miles away from my home didn't faze me. I was confident in my ability to remain distant and independent, which in my mind meant safe.

And for the most part, it worked. But then I ended up at a place that had been completely misrepresented with a guy who had completely misrepresented himself. On top of that, he was actively antagonistic and creepy. So I left.

I walked for 6 hours through the French countryside, declining kind offers for rides to the train station. Each person who stopped along the road told me, first in french, then in english, that the train was very far. They were correct. But I was not about to let my guard down. I wasn't about to trust anyone, even for a ride to the train station.

When I eventually arrived at the train station, it was 11pm so there were no trains running. I stayed in a hotel and the next morning I took a train to Paris and from there, a train to Prague - the cheapest place I could think of to stay for two weeks. In Prague I kind of huddled into myself. I wrote, I meditated, I walked around and stared at statues. Met people at hostels, stayed distant yet interested. Then, it was time to go to my next scheduled stay - in Girona Spain. I was supposed to stay at an apartment there with a couple - Xavier and Alicia.

Back in Paris, considering the train to Barcelona, my nerves failed me. I called USairways and asked how much it would cost to change my flight home to earlier, like that day. Then, I decided to go to Spain anyway. Traveling south through France, my nerves got worse and worse and I began to get physically sick. My sinuses were a mess, my head ached. The more I worried, the worse I felt. The train ended in Montpellier, where I was supposed to transfer to another train to Barcelona. But somehow I had missed it and the next one wouldn't leave til morning. I was a full on mess at this point. Sick of carrying my bag with me, I left it on a bench while I went to talk to the ticket lady. The French soldiers who were patrolling the station weren't happy about that and asked me if it was my bag when I returned to it. Normally, I might be a little nervous about being questioned by guys with guns. Not then. All my nerves were shot to hell. I looked at them levelly. 'yep. that's my bag.' I didn't care if someone stole it. Didn't care if the police confiscated it. I was exhausted.

At this point two girls from Belgium came up to me and asked me if I wanted to go dancing with them. True story. I can't imagine what vibe I was giving off that said 'ready to party.' I explained that I was sick and stranded in Montpellier til morning, when I'd be going to Barcelona. I further explained that I was exhausted and sick of doing things like travel planning and therefore, I was just going to sit here, in the train station, until the train to Barcelona arrived.

They began to look at the situation differently. 'You can't do that! It's dangerous! You have to get a hotel room!'. Everything is dangerous, I thought. It's exhausting. I'm just going to sit here, on my bag, in the Montpellier train station.

They picked up my bag and ordered me to follow them out of the train station. I followed them to a street of hotels where they spoke to the desk clerk and arranged a discounted room price, since it was so late and they weren't going to fill their rooms anyway. I watched in wonder.
'Ok - you're set. So, now do you want to go dancing?'
I didn't. But I was extremely grateful and thanked them very much for their help.
And then I passed out.

The next morning, I got a bus to Barcelona. The radio was playing 'Should I stay or should I go' by the Clash. Even in my weariest moments, I am always a fan of an appropriate song for an occasion. The further south the bus went, the closer to some unfamiliar destination, the sicker I got. And then Barcelona. I couldn't find a map to save my life. I couldn't find anyone who spoke English. I was about to pull a Montpellier and sit on my bag until something else happened, when I turned around and realized I was standing in front of the 'English as a second language' school. They were very happy to give me directions in English.

But then, the train from Barcelona to Girona. The further north the train went, the sicker I got. What the hell was I doing? These people could be axe murders.

In the train station in Girona I met Xavier and his friend Nani. I was cautious at first, but they seemed normal. Well no, that's not true. They seemed interesting and comical, but harmless. We drove to Xavier and Alicia's apartment in the middle of Girona. Alicia was sweet and welcoming. The apartment was awesome and ancient. I was still sick and exhausted and nerve-riddled. Alicia insisted I go lay down before dinner. In the loft above the living room, I crashed on a bed and tried to sleep. Instead, I felt my nerves begin to unwind as I listened to Xavier and Alicia talk and make dinner. They were listening to the radio - Neil Young's Harvest Moon. It felt the opposite of dangerous.


When I'm thinking about the koan of my dharma name - this trip offers a lot of insight. My belief as a kid was that I had to make a judgement about people, who was safe and who wasn't. And I failed because I trusted people who were dangerous. So I never wanted to fail again and be put in that situation, I wanted to judge correctly - to recognize danger before it go too close. But that perception kept me in a state of distance and mistrust.

As an adult, I had to compassionately recognize that while there was a reason for this habitual mistrust, it wasn't an accurate perception of the world around me, the people around me. And I had to recognize that my definition of trust was too absolute. I trusted people based on the circumstance, their role in my life, their social position. To trust with wisdom, I had to trust based on experience. But to actually have an experience that was in the present moment, I had to let go of mistrust and see what was actually there. It may be that the experience or the prolonged experience of interacting with someone leads me to distrust them. Or it may be that the experience or prolonged experience of knowing someone leads me to trust them. But I'll never know unless I allow myself that experience. And I have to remember that trust is not faith, it's not blind. It's not all-in or all-out. There are degrees of trust.

Of all the people I met while I was in Europe that year, it's Xavier and Alicia that I am still friends with. I visit them everytime I go to Europe. I'm glad I was able to be open to the experience of getting to know them, despite the near nervous system failure I had on my way there.

Sangha

When I was growing up, my older brother and I had to go to mass every Sunday. The rest of our family didn't go - the younger siblings being too small to attend without our parents who didn't want to go to Mass. For some reason, my Dad seemed to think that my brother's and my attendance was crucial to our moral and spiritual development.

This mandated attendance usually involved both of us standing in the very back of the church, as far back as we could get while technically being 'in church'. I would look out over the congregation the way people look at those optical illusion illustrations, where if you soften your gaze enough, some other picture becomes clear. I could do that for 45 minutes. Lost in my thoughts, appreciating the stained glass windows, willfully disregarding all the memorized-into-nonsense prayers.

My brother, being two years older and far more openly rebellious, would stand with arms crossed, sulking or glaring. The very skate punk insignia that covered his mostly black clothing was an all encompassing thumbed nose at all he surveyed.

One Sunday, Father Brennan walked into the back of the church and stopped next to Pat. Conversationally, he said 'They love you in there too, you know.'

Having been raised to be especially respectful to priests and nuns, my brother shrugged and mumbled. Meanwhile, I was drawn out of my reveries by that interaction. I felt embarassment for the priest who spoke so earnestly but had completely misread the situation and mostly - uncontrollable hilarity. I willed myself not to laugh. I refused to look at my brother even after Father Brennan walked away because I knew that when I did, I would lose my shit laughing at him.

We left at the earliest possible time we could while still saying we had been to mass. Outside I immediately started in 'Dude. All this time, you've been hating going to mass. But it's cool now. Problem solved. They love you in there too.'

Being teenagers, we were especially mistrustful of institutions and viewed them and their congregants with a Holden Caulfield-ish hypersensitivity to phoniness and hypocrisy. And to our skeptical eyes, there was a whole lot of phoniness going on there. Not to mention a pretty big disconnect between the idea of the grand scope of Jesus' love and the little insignificant rituals of sitting, standing, kneeling and repeating prayers. From the back of that church, the ritual of mass looked like a collection of small, pixelated images that were obscuring the larger image I wanted to connect to.

More than ten years later, after a few years of working on my individual Buddhist practice, I decided to move to a monastery in Germany for three months to find some kind of structure and support for my practice. The 'official' ceremony for becoming a Buddhist is called 'taking refuge'. The idea is that you take refuge in the Buddha, Dharma and Sangha. The Buddha offers refuge/support in his example of embodying Buddha Nature or the god in all of us. The Dharma offers refuge as a philosophy or lesson. Sangha means 'a community with a common goal, vision or purpose.' And the support it gives is in the day to day efforts to apply Dharma and to recognize our Buddha Nature.

Here again was this idea of a collection of individuals as a support and kind of conduit to spirituality. Yet it was easier for me to feel the validity of that idea within the sanghas in Philadelphia and Germany. Inside these groups, I didn't see them as phony or hypocritical, I saw them as I saw myself - people who aspired to connect with love and spirituality yet who were naturally and humanly flawed and lible to act in ways that weren't quite in keeping with their highest aspirations. Those very flaws, that very humanity was what allowed me to feel connected to them in a way that I didn't feel connected to Buddha or Dharma. There seemed to be a lot of perfection going on there.Whereas our sangha was quite imperfect.

The funny thing about my time in that monastery is that half the time, someone in the sangha was freaking out or acting in a way that was so ego based it seemed the opposite of everything Buddhist. And the structured/organized religion of Buddhism is not completely without monks or nuns who abuse power and act in ways that are hypocritical.

As a 14 year old, standing in the back of the Buddha Hall, I would have disregarded the people as little pixelated images, totally insignificant and unrelated to the concept of Buddhism. I wouldn't have cared if a monk had come up to me and said 'They love you in there too.' Who wants to be loved by hypocritical, crazy people? And what does that have to do with God? I would have softened my gaze, disconnected from the group and tried to see the bigger picture that was separate and better than the group of individuals and their seemingly unrelated actions.

Honestly, sometimes I still do. But then I'm reminded that I am one of those little pixelated images that makes up the bigger picture. And the times that I've felt most connected to the bigger picture, it's because I opened myself up to the humanness of myself and the humanness of others.

From the back of the church, outside looking in, I might see a group of crazy people, or I might see a bigger, seemingly more important image. But inside, among the group, I can feel it. And in the mixture of imperfections and repeated efforts to let go of fear and identify with love and compassion, I can feel the point where the human experience meets the spiritual experience.

And it's in experience that we gain wisdom, which is a deeper knowledge than any we could gain from staying detached and trying to critically and conceptually understand.