5-6-11 0720 Muir Beach. The Poster Session that I was scheduled to present at was set for Monday, and the latest program I found on line indicated that its start had been moved to 4 PM. So getting finished, and getting back to Berkeley in time for dinner with Annie, Peter, and Sala was a bit more problematic. The first step, as Sala pointed out, was for ME to email Annie to explain MY mistake.
Well, its true, It was my mistake, although at the moment I can't remember whether the mistake was systemic (not remembering I had the event at Stanford aka The Farm) or strategic (the poster event will be over in time to get to Berkeley for dinner). In either case, faux de mieux, and I must be vigilant in such cases not to blame-shift. That's true, as well; I do enjoy or at least utilize a blame shift or two in my usual day in the world. And so Sala is being a friend and a true help mate to remind me.
So I did email Annie, and thus with a clear and blame-accepting consience, got out into the gorgeous misty wisty day last Monday to travel to The Farm and the WGEA meeting (a branch of the AAMC, what is the governing body for us medical academics). Walking along our street (which to the user is more like a very long driveway with speed bumps) in the crepuscular glow, with birds really tweeting and twittering and the Internet fading like the stars, I reflected that this trip was really all about self agrandisement, getting our stuff into the public arena, making an academic mark. On the other hand, I knew that once there, I would have no trouble using all the time and wishing for more to yak with my fellow academics about their views, and plans, about teaching medical students.
Sunset way is a bench road, cut along the side of the hill, not trying to make progress up but rather to avoid sliding down. This Western side of Muir Beach is basaltic rock covered with a relatively loose veneer of mud temporarily dry enough to hold houses, like most of the California coast...the parts that arent pure sand desert at least. About 200 houses cling to various parts of it. This is not intentional community; it just growed as people bought, divided, and sold. The latest arrivals have to have access to a chunk of change to afford the prices, but the second and third generation folks own their often very modest houses outright, and have only the taxes to pay (remember California passed Prop 13 and so taxes don't grow as big as pumpkins here. As a result, our childen don't get an education. So it goes).
The mist was moving out of the valley that holds Green Gulch Zen Monestary, and out over the mildly surging sea. It was full light by 6, easy to see my hitchiking sign 'Tam Jxtn", and I was picked up by Greg the carpenter rather than Mike the painter. There is no bus from Muir Beach to the Junction where I catch the number 4 to the financial district in SF, so I appreciate my regular drivers and can usually get a ride with one of them. The two anesthesiologists who live on Sunset and also were reliable seem to have drifted into different schedules.
Greg doesnt like hanging drywall either("we're too small for that!"), and is mostly framing these days. Of course he prefers cabinetry. Up the twisty hill, pausing where the road has washed out half way across. They are setting up safety signals to start repairing, which will add half an hour to the commute soon. The mists are gone as we cross over the Miwok trail, and the Bay shines brightly ahead. Another day in paradise!
The 4 financial district runs about every 10 minutes during the morning commute southbound; it doesnt run at all out of commute hours. Soon we are roaring across the Golden Gate Bridge, the coiling muscular waters far below, an enormously large container ship dwindling less to less as it heads out into the Pacific. Only the gulls and pidgeons on the Bay Street near Fishermans Wharf, but the souvenir and crab cocktail stores are washing down sidewalks at pier 39.
I am not sure if the F trolly goes to CalTrain over on 4th and King, so decide to walk there. That includes cutting through Yerba Buena, and admiring its pleasant villagey feel, very like comparable developments in London, New York, or Barcelona. Sleepy homeless folks are rousing up, their dogs yawning in the pleasantly temperate morning air. I am not sure if the place named 'The Creamery' is a gay bar or a breakfast place; the line for coffee is too long anyway, so I get my decaf and scone in the CalTrain station.
My Senior Clipper Card works on CalTrain, and as long as I remember to tag the electronic base when I get off, the trip costs $2.55. The whole setup brings faint pleasant memories of the TGV to small towns in Brittany, but of course when the train gets under way, the lurching and screeching reminds me these rails are made in Amurica. Still, its public transport and its full!
The South SF scene rolls by. Graffiti, but all tags, none of the major art you might see in NY or Amsterdam. Stretches of wetland, stuck in that land between preservation and exploitation (the frogs dont care what you call it). The tickytacky houses Malvina immortalized, and many more, now more likely blocks of cave dwellings concreted into solid rows along the hillsides.
The Cow Palace, still there, still hosting cows, gunshows, and the occasional circus and Republican fete. The train is making good speed now, and the larger houses of Hillsdale are flowing past. And very soon with no driving depression, no road rage, we are slowing down for Palo Alto.
Margurite is the name of the Stanford shuttle bus, and Margurite X and Y take you to and from the Medical School.
And in that regard, the visit was depressingly beautiful, sadly well kempt, and tragically well supported. I wandered into Beckman Hall, and the the Hughes Research Institute. The pickup frisbee game on the well mowed lawn was light spirited in a way that I havent seen on the Cal Berkeley camus this year. Public education is starving. Stanford is thriving. The rich get richer, and the rich pay for Stanford. The poor apply to Cal.
It cost me $450 all in to print the poster and pay the registration fee. No funds for faculty support this year, particularly for Emeritus faculty. The discussion was well worth it; I like this poster format where you stand next to your poster and discuss you work with whomsoever comes around, rather than having to rush around between many simultaneous meetings to find the people you want and to listen to them cram their discoveries into 7 minutes of Powerpoint. It's just that I wish Cal wasnt facing a $17 million dollar deficit.
I took down the poster while discussion was still going on all around, rolled it back up and caught Margurite back to CalTrain. This time I connected directly to BART at Millbrae (previously, like Houndslow or Rockaway, just a name on a map) and was texting Sala to come pick me up at Rockridge in the East Bay in time for dinner. Viva La Transporte Publica!!
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
A Voyage to Vipassna
5/7/11 0630 Muir Beach.
And so I walked up the hill from the first front gate, where a sign had motivated 'cars arriving for the retreat' into a waiting line at a small reception kiosk.. Sala has been coming to Spirit Rock since it was begun, did her first sitting as a Vipassna, and then later gravitated or levitated to Zen Buddhism and Green Gulch. The larger buildings where my retreat would take place were up a little tarmac road, which winds a bit as it ascends the gentle grass sided ravine that holds this Retreat and Meditation center. It’s a part of the larger San Geronimo valley, which is over the hill to the West of Fairfax, Marin County, and home to Lagunitas and Woodacre, pleasant old California communities with a agricultural past, now mostly relating to The City. Beyond to the West lies Taylor state park, and Hells Gulch, whose tiny tributary stream passes unobtrusively under route 1 and actually is ancestral home to a salmon run. There is a certain mildly triste magic in finding these large fish fanning their fins in a tiny pool under a highway.
Stay mindful , student!! Those kind of fish thoughts are exactly the kind that Mark, our retreat leader, would later identify as one of the early challenges to a sitting practice. 'When a thought comes' he said the very next morning in his Dharma talk, 'I say to myself, 'what is this?' and then let it swim on out of my mind'. Back at the Spirit Rock entry point, I hoisted my small LL Bean brown canvas duffle out of the car, kissed Sala bye bye, and walked over to say howdy to two women who were standing at the back of their opened SUV. They were from San Diego, blondish, sisters-in-law. 'Our families think we're crazy' one said, the other nodding in ruefully amused agreement. The brothers and a sister in law were going to the snow with the kids while the sisters in law came to this silent retreat.
Yep, I felt very California to be coming to a Silent Retreat at Spirit Rock . It was advertised as a Retreat for the Curious; a four day, three night experience of sitting in meditation, yoga, and silence. My own extended family thought I was wise and wonderful to be coming. Actually, Sala had said, using a tone of voice similar to the one I use to comment on the smoking of cigarettes, 'I really think you should do a retreat for more than a day', She had found this event in the Spirit Rock catalog on line. I would miss only one day of my medical teaching, and another teacher could handle that.
These Northern California Hills are very green in spring. Bay trees along with coastal oaks and a variety of furzy brush and poison oak make thickets in the creases, where the water runs. The grass on the open hillsides is blowing, billowing in the wind, creating patterns of reflected light as though invisible animals were scurrying through it. There is at least one herd of wild turkeys, and several small flocks of deer. The upper, newer meditation center consists of a large Meditation Hall with foyer and a small block of classroom space next to it, and to the West,. a dining hall, a yurt, and then 4 large wooden dormitories and a smaller administration building.
My reward for walking up the hill while the car occupants and their luggage were being transferred to small electric transport was a plum Dana/work assignment; the men’s toilet at the Meditation Center. 'You can clean it on your own time', my greeter explained. 'Joy will show you how at 4:30'.
Each of the dorms has the name of a Vipassna virtue, and its significant that at this time, weeks later, I can't remember a single one. I suppose one is probably Metta, the practice of loving kindness, but perhaps not.
The rooms are cells; plastered gypsum, plastic windows, a single bed, a small writing table, a compact sink, a shared bathroom for each floor. A short nap carpeting makes barefoot walking pleasant. My window looks out at the tangle of vegetation near the little creek. Turkey gobbling is the loudest noise.
The main activity of the retreat is, of course, sitting in silence, in Sangha, the group which constitutes one of the three pillars of practice, along with Dharma, the practice, and Buddha...the teacher. And I probably have it wrong. The sitting is often done on the floor, in half or full lotus (one or both ankles cross over the other and resting on the thigh). But you probably know all this, including how this not particularly natural sitting posture strains the knees, producing...well...pain. Yep, among the many aspects of sitting can be actual physical pain, and it’s one of the first items that our three teachers address. Vipassna practice is NOT about pain, Mark urges. And perhaps as a result, there are people in all sorts of postures, assisted by piles of cushions, by little benches, by poufy zafus and minimatress like zabutans. But by day 4, we have actually become a kind of sangha, and the final event, a circle of all 100 or so people, I definitely feel some kind of connection.
In between, there is sitting, and there is walking. Periods of 30 to 45 minutes of each, in alternation. There are dharma talks, explaining sitting practice, loving kindness practice, walking practice, mindful eating. I miss the Zen custom of bowing to people when you meet them; when sitting down at the table in silence, do you avoid eye contact (most of the time), do you smile (some of the time) or what? I like the integration of yoga practice..only for ¾ hour, but the teacher is not one of these take-your-time teachers, it’s slam, bam, on to the next pose, and feels really good.
I make a mindful practice of cleaning the men’s room. I try to stay in physical balance, not rushing or flopping, being deliberate and thorough. By day 3 I am a little possessive, going in more often than really needed and cleaning up minor fluid spills. The woman doing the ladies loo right across the way is someone I talked to briefly when we were registering, so we can exchange conspiratorial smiles, and at the end, our of silence, hug and say how much we appreciated each other’s support.
I became annoyed at a man I felt was pretentious, and as I found the thought again in my mind on day 2, actually did try the metta practice, and by golly, it worked, I liked him better all surrounded by loving kindness. And sure enough, when another 70 plus year old made a brief statement at the end of how touched she had been by the event, he flashed a very luminous and quite genuine smile of approval.
And then there was the lesson of the turkeys. We had a group meeting with one of the teachers. Mine was with Spring, a luminous young mixed race female practitioner. The lesson actually came from two of the other students, after she had gently enjoined to avoid back and forth between ourselves. One of the women in the group said how shocked she had been to witness a man throwing rocks at the turkeys. She had wondered whether to say anything…but since she was in silence, had not. She wondered if something should be done. Should she have reported him? Before Spring could respond, another member of the student sangha said ‘Did you think of just throwing a rock at him? That’s what I would have done’. And that, o best beloved, was the lesson of the turkeys. Spring went on to remark that it was common to feel shock and surprise at the way of the world, if you were open to it.
I have trouble with balance. Or to be specific, I feel my balance is nowhere near as good as it used to be. This means that good technique in walking practice is important. And half way through, I remember that I actually watched Sala demonstrate this, but didn’t really try to do it. So I try..and there again, it actually works.
The food was amazing, vegan vegetarian of course, and sitting doesn’t burn a whole lot of calories, so I actually gained weight. And the mindful eating, a bite at a time, chew well, appreciate the food, swallow carefully, and go on…well, it’s a great recipe for better digestion and long life.
I got a ride back to the bottom of our hill from a nice man with a car. We were both talking pretty non-stop of course, after four days of silence. The yoga had helped my right hip pain a lot. The sitting practice had let me examine a thought as an interesting object ( ‘what is this?’), and let it pass on (‘not now, please’). The walking practice had improved my balance. The food had encouraged me towards a better diet.
The nice man with the car got on the subject of his therapist. For months, he said, he had been having ideas of asking her for a date. Now he was filled with loving kindness, and REALLY thought it might be time. What did I think of that?
I took a minute to reflect. Nope, to that extent I had not changed. ‘Not a good idea’, I said.
And so I walked up the hill from the first front gate, where a sign had motivated 'cars arriving for the retreat' into a waiting line at a small reception kiosk.. Sala has been coming to Spirit Rock since it was begun, did her first sitting as a Vipassna, and then later gravitated or levitated to Zen Buddhism and Green Gulch. The larger buildings where my retreat would take place were up a little tarmac road, which winds a bit as it ascends the gentle grass sided ravine that holds this Retreat and Meditation center. It’s a part of the larger San Geronimo valley, which is over the hill to the West of Fairfax, Marin County, and home to Lagunitas and Woodacre, pleasant old California communities with a agricultural past, now mostly relating to The City. Beyond to the West lies Taylor state park, and Hells Gulch, whose tiny tributary stream passes unobtrusively under route 1 and actually is ancestral home to a salmon run. There is a certain mildly triste magic in finding these large fish fanning their fins in a tiny pool under a highway.
Stay mindful , student!! Those kind of fish thoughts are exactly the kind that Mark, our retreat leader, would later identify as one of the early challenges to a sitting practice. 'When a thought comes' he said the very next morning in his Dharma talk, 'I say to myself, 'what is this?' and then let it swim on out of my mind'. Back at the Spirit Rock entry point, I hoisted my small LL Bean brown canvas duffle out of the car, kissed Sala bye bye, and walked over to say howdy to two women who were standing at the back of their opened SUV. They were from San Diego, blondish, sisters-in-law. 'Our families think we're crazy' one said, the other nodding in ruefully amused agreement. The brothers and a sister in law were going to the snow with the kids while the sisters in law came to this silent retreat.
Yep, I felt very California to be coming to a Silent Retreat at Spirit Rock . It was advertised as a Retreat for the Curious; a four day, three night experience of sitting in meditation, yoga, and silence. My own extended family thought I was wise and wonderful to be coming. Actually, Sala had said, using a tone of voice similar to the one I use to comment on the smoking of cigarettes, 'I really think you should do a retreat for more than a day', She had found this event in the Spirit Rock catalog on line. I would miss only one day of my medical teaching, and another teacher could handle that.
These Northern California Hills are very green in spring. Bay trees along with coastal oaks and a variety of furzy brush and poison oak make thickets in the creases, where the water runs. The grass on the open hillsides is blowing, billowing in the wind, creating patterns of reflected light as though invisible animals were scurrying through it. There is at least one herd of wild turkeys, and several small flocks of deer. The upper, newer meditation center consists of a large Meditation Hall with foyer and a small block of classroom space next to it, and to the West,. a dining hall, a yurt, and then 4 large wooden dormitories and a smaller administration building.
My reward for walking up the hill while the car occupants and their luggage were being transferred to small electric transport was a plum Dana/work assignment; the men’s toilet at the Meditation Center. 'You can clean it on your own time', my greeter explained. 'Joy will show you how at 4:30'.
Each of the dorms has the name of a Vipassna virtue, and its significant that at this time, weeks later, I can't remember a single one. I suppose one is probably Metta, the practice of loving kindness, but perhaps not.
The rooms are cells; plastered gypsum, plastic windows, a single bed, a small writing table, a compact sink, a shared bathroom for each floor. A short nap carpeting makes barefoot walking pleasant. My window looks out at the tangle of vegetation near the little creek. Turkey gobbling is the loudest noise.
The main activity of the retreat is, of course, sitting in silence, in Sangha, the group which constitutes one of the three pillars of practice, along with Dharma, the practice, and Buddha...the teacher. And I probably have it wrong. The sitting is often done on the floor, in half or full lotus (one or both ankles cross over the other and resting on the thigh). But you probably know all this, including how this not particularly natural sitting posture strains the knees, producing...well...pain. Yep, among the many aspects of sitting can be actual physical pain, and it’s one of the first items that our three teachers address. Vipassna practice is NOT about pain, Mark urges. And perhaps as a result, there are people in all sorts of postures, assisted by piles of cushions, by little benches, by poufy zafus and minimatress like zabutans. But by day 4, we have actually become a kind of sangha, and the final event, a circle of all 100 or so people, I definitely feel some kind of connection.
In between, there is sitting, and there is walking. Periods of 30 to 45 minutes of each, in alternation. There are dharma talks, explaining sitting practice, loving kindness practice, walking practice, mindful eating. I miss the Zen custom of bowing to people when you meet them; when sitting down at the table in silence, do you avoid eye contact (most of the time), do you smile (some of the time) or what? I like the integration of yoga practice..only for ¾ hour, but the teacher is not one of these take-your-time teachers, it’s slam, bam, on to the next pose, and feels really good.
I make a mindful practice of cleaning the men’s room. I try to stay in physical balance, not rushing or flopping, being deliberate and thorough. By day 3 I am a little possessive, going in more often than really needed and cleaning up minor fluid spills. The woman doing the ladies loo right across the way is someone I talked to briefly when we were registering, so we can exchange conspiratorial smiles, and at the end, our of silence, hug and say how much we appreciated each other’s support.
I became annoyed at a man I felt was pretentious, and as I found the thought again in my mind on day 2, actually did try the metta practice, and by golly, it worked, I liked him better all surrounded by loving kindness. And sure enough, when another 70 plus year old made a brief statement at the end of how touched she had been by the event, he flashed a very luminous and quite genuine smile of approval.
And then there was the lesson of the turkeys. We had a group meeting with one of the teachers. Mine was with Spring, a luminous young mixed race female practitioner. The lesson actually came from two of the other students, after she had gently enjoined to avoid back and forth between ourselves. One of the women in the group said how shocked she had been to witness a man throwing rocks at the turkeys. She had wondered whether to say anything…but since she was in silence, had not. She wondered if something should be done. Should she have reported him? Before Spring could respond, another member of the student sangha said ‘Did you think of just throwing a rock at him? That’s what I would have done’. And that, o best beloved, was the lesson of the turkeys. Spring went on to remark that it was common to feel shock and surprise at the way of the world, if you were open to it.
I have trouble with balance. Or to be specific, I feel my balance is nowhere near as good as it used to be. This means that good technique in walking practice is important. And half way through, I remember that I actually watched Sala demonstrate this, but didn’t really try to do it. So I try..and there again, it actually works.
The food was amazing, vegan vegetarian of course, and sitting doesn’t burn a whole lot of calories, so I actually gained weight. And the mindful eating, a bite at a time, chew well, appreciate the food, swallow carefully, and go on…well, it’s a great recipe for better digestion and long life.
I got a ride back to the bottom of our hill from a nice man with a car. We were both talking pretty non-stop of course, after four days of silence. The yoga had helped my right hip pain a lot. The sitting practice had let me examine a thought as an interesting object ( ‘what is this?’), and let it pass on (‘not now, please’). The walking practice had improved my balance. The food had encouraged me towards a better diet.
The nice man with the car got on the subject of his therapist. For months, he said, he had been having ideas of asking her for a date. Now he was filled with loving kindness, and REALLY thought it might be time. What did I think of that?
I took a minute to reflect. Nope, to that extent I had not changed. ‘Not a good idea’, I said.
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