Category Archives: Buddhism

Ordinary Life = Joy

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Four days after our move, our washer went kaput (after 12 years of faithful service). This occurred on a day that Bean decided to try to, erm, clean up her poopy diaper while in her crib for a nap. So, Husband did fast research on Consumer Reports, and we went to Sears. We now have a high-efficiency washer and matching dryer! In the video below, Bean demonstrates the attitude that I try to live by as written about by my friend, Karen Maezen Miller of Cheerio Road.

Hidden Blessings

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It had been a rough winter for Bean. She got sick nearly every month since September (and coincidentally she started preschool one day a week that month), had two bouts of pneumonia, and required treatments to help her breathe. The latest illness began on Mother’s Day, and by Thursday she was in a spiral of non-stop coughing. I mean that literally. She couldn’t utter a sentence without coughing between words. She couldn’t eat; she coughed so much and so hard she vomited. She hardly slept. The doctor had me bring her in and gave her breathing treatment, then sent us home with a prescription for prednisone and albuterol treatments. We also discussed whether to forgo attending preschool in the fall.

At our follow-up appointment on Tuesday, we discussed the situation. It turns out that Bean has asthma. This may be something she outgrows, as her respiratory system gets bigger and her immunity builds. She’s very petite. We have an asthma plan. When she’s healthy, it’s the green zone, and we need not do anything. At the sign of any sickness (fever, runny nose, sneezing, congestion, coughing — any one of these) we enter the yellow zone. We are to give her albuterol every four hours round the clock and prednisone twice a day until the cold goes away.

However, if she’s in the yellow zone more than a week, or she falls into a coughing spiral as she has, we enter the red zone and need to seek emergency attention — Urgent Care if they’re open, the ER if not.

At first I felt a little sad about pulling her out of preschool. I really want her to have the social outlet, and I want it too. The doctor pointed out, though, that if she’s sick all the time, she can’t get the social contact anyway. And preschool is a lot more exposure to illness than small play-dates with friends. So, I set about creating an at-home curriculum for us next year: reading/phonics, science, art & craft, music, games, adventure days. I’ll invite a couple friends over to join us now and then. And after more pondering, I realize that I have a gift. Soon enough, Bean will go to school five days a week and enter into her own life away from me. I have the privilege of her company for another year, at least, and maybe two.

I just returned from a day-long retreat with my friend Karen, where I realized something else. We’ve resorted to doing “puffs” — breathing ten times from a little chamber where the medicine is squirted into — because she fought the breathing treatments that took ten minutes every time. And I realized, today, that by sitting with her and helping her count breaths to ten, I am setting the foundation for her to learn how to settle herself and become aware of breath. It also helps me to stop and breathe, and be quiet. Breathing is the foundation of meditation, which leads to attention, which leads to love, which leads to patience, which leads to forgiveness, which leads to peace.

So what first seems like a hindrance has turned out to have aspects to appreciate. I’m grateful for that.

——-

I have written this post quickly, because my life is in flux and I have to give my attention to other things: dinner, and packing. I feel eloquence is lacking in the above reflection, but it will have to do. We move on Tuesday! So much to do before that!

It’s Not All Hearts and Flowers

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Last week was rough for me and Bean. She had a slight cold, and she simply would not nap. I’d rock her, she was clearly tired, but no sleep came. By dinnertime each day she was strung out and whiny, and I was on edge. I was not ready to give up her nap, dammit! I resisted with all my mental might. And inevitably, her lack of nap and subsequent crankiness and my exasperation combined badly.

On Friday, for the first time ever, I hit Bean. I was feeding her rice (she’d asked to sit on the counter). I asked her to stop squishing the loaf of bread once, twice, and then I moved it out of her reach. She struck at me, knocking the bowl of rice from my hand, and without thinking I smacked her knee hard. She was wearing a skirt.

And the awful bit is, I wasn’t sorry the instant after. I was just angry. She was wide-eyed, shocked, screaming and sobbing, choking on her mouthful of rice, snot running everywhere. And I told her I was really angry, and that I’d HAD it with her hitting. (She’s doing it more, and she’s bigger, so it makes an impact.)

Then as soon as those words came out of my mouth, I said, “I’m sorry. I should not have done that. We don’t hit, and that means I don’t hit.” Then I hugged her, and she clung to me. And she said she was sorry. We calmed down, she ate some more. She spent the evening talking about it, about how she knocked the bowl and hit me and I swatted her. How she was sorry she did that. And I? I spent the evening quivering at my actions, feeling guilty, wondering how it had come to this and how to avoid a repeat offense.

The thing is, two days prior to that I almost lost control with her trying to get her down for a nap. She started kicking and hitting after we’d had a long, quiet, lullaby-filled rocking session. I was so angry I wanted to throw her to the floor. Instead, as I was holding her I roared horribly in her face — an animal sound, shocking myself as well — put her in the crib (roughly), tossed her blanket at her and stepped away. I was nearly beside myself. I certainly terrified her. She instantly stood up screaming and crying, reaching for me, saying “Doe a deer, doe a deer” over and over. (That’s the song from the Sound of Music that I sing to her.) I went right to her and scooped her up, said I was sorry over and over, went back to the rocker and sang the song for long minutes. We clung to each other. We calmed down. And then we went downstairs, giving up on the nap.

It’s scary to be a parent sometimes. It’s hard.

I talked with Husband about this. I came to realize that I’m really uptight about our impending move, about feeling no control, feeling daunted, and that I really need to get a grip — or at least to let go of my desire to orchestrate. I know this. But sometimes I slip out of awareness and wind up heading straight to a hell of my own making. The way out is to take deep breaths, and focus on what needs doing right now, this moment. I’m steady again.

Yesterday and today I put Bean down MUCH later for a nap, and each time she went down swiftly and deeply. Ah, so that’s the change we might need for now! (In addition to my return to reality.)

This morning she initiated a game of running away from me to the other side of the room, then telling me “Mommy cry.” So I wailed and bawled and boo-hooed, and she came running to me, throwing herself in my arms and hugging with all her might, kissing my lips, telling me she loves me, she likes me, that she came back. Repeat. After about ten minutes of this, she switched and said, “Mommy be angry.” So I ranted and huffed, said “I’m so mad!”; she repeated the same charge toward me into my arms, covering my face with kisses. This went on for many minutes too. She finally decided to end it by saying, “Let’s read a book together so you won’t be so upset.” And so we did. (She picked The Lorax, of all things!)

So now, good readers, you know that it’s not always about craft projects and shaving cream and goofiness. I was sufficiently unsettled by my behavior. I contacted two wise women about this, and they affirmed what I already know: keep aware, step back, take a deep breath, walk away if need be. Don’t set up the expectation to never ever do that again, because that’s a sure path to failure. Just make amends, and do my best, which is usually pretty good.

Love this girl.

Radio Silence

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Throughout my life, writing has been a cherished expression for me. At one point I even felt that writing was as important as breathing. I so urgently wanted to tell my story about where I came from, what was done to me, what had happened in my life. I wanted to share tidbits, information, inspiration, resources. It was a form of therapy, a creative outlet, and a way to connect intimately with others (even when those others were anonymous).

I’ve noticed since becoming a mother I have written less. No, I take that back. For the first two years of Bean’s life, I wrote about her. Then I decided to reign that in, since she is developing greater agency over her life. Lately, blogging about my life strikes me as an incredibly narcissistic activity; it always has been, but at one point I actually thought it had value. Increasingly, though, I see that my vignettes, reflections, and insights are not original, and I’m not certain that writing them (here or in a paper journal) effects anything beneficial. I don’t seem to need to do it anymore. So this blog has become a place to link to resources related to my current activity (parenting) and the occasional photo or movie of Bean. This morning I realized there are usually three factors that cause my writing silence; any one of these can be cause for me to abandon writing for while:

  1. I am very busy with daily activities (such as when I worked and went to school, both full-time).
  2. I am content with my life.
  3. I feel that to write is to express nothing unique or new, and to blog is just adding another voice to the cacophony of Twitterers, bloggers, Facebookers (of which I’m an avid user) and other sundry voices.

As it happens, all of these factors are true at the moment. Hence, my sporadic posts.

I’ve been reading voraciously this year. Some years I barely touch fiction, other years I devour it. This is a fiction year. Yet I’ve also been immersed in a number of existential books by Eckhart Tolle, and most recently I’ve been soaking in Hand Wash Cold: Care Instructions for an Ordinary Life.

At this point, I’ll keep living as usual. There’s a season for all things, and the writing season will probably come ’round again.

Sometimes

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Some days I look at my child and am astounded that she has made another leap toward growing up. Today was such a day. She rarely permits me to “do” her hair, but today I insisted on trying pigtails, which she loved. But oh! She looked so much older with them, and her thoughts and speech are becoming increasingly sophisticated. Her imagination soars. I sit and watch her. I hang out with her and play. I soak in each moment that I’m capable of bringing my full attention to; it’s all going so fast, and once it’s gone, it’s just… gone. She was once a wee babe that I cherished, but that’s ancient history; yet I’m not sad because I paid attention to what she was then. I didn’t focus on a future time when she’d be walking, or telling stories, because I knew that would come and didn’t want to miss what was right in front of me. I’m so lucky to have this bit of wisdom by which to live (thanks to my mother and my friend, Karen), and I’m so lucky to be Bean’s mom.

having fun

What’s The Story?

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In reading Eckhart Tolle’s books, I am reminded that we shore up our egos with stories. Unfortunately, ego can be a monumental obstacle to real peace, real being. At one point in my life, it was very important to me to tell people my story: of where I came from, my family dynamics, the struggles I had, the battles I fought. I wanted to be understood. That is, I wanted to be praised, pitied, cosseted. The older I get, however, the less important all that seems. Perhaps it’s interesting as family history, but it really isn’t vital to how I’m to live now. Or at least, it need not be.

I was given a subscription to The Sun, and I always savor the last few pages, including the section called Sy Safransky’s Notebook (he’s the editor). From the March 2010 edition:

I left my story in a barn so someone else could keep milking it. I left my story in the fitting room; it didn’t fit me anymore. I left my story at the hospital because it wouldn’t stop bleeding. I left my story at the rest stop; it needed a rest. I left my story at the body shop because it always wanted a different one. I left my story with some cash so it could never say, “Poor me.” I left my story without saying where I was going because I didn’t want it to follow me; it never even noticed I was gone.

–Sy Safransky

Practicing Courage (i.e., Patience)

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If you practice the kind of patience that leads to the de-escalation of aggression and the cessation of suffering, you will be cultivating enormous courage. You will really get to know anger and how it breeds violent words and actions. You will see the whole thing without acting it out. When you practice patience, you’re not repressing anger, you’re just sitting there with it—going cold turkey with the aggression. As a result, you really get to know the energy of anger and you also get to know where it leads, even without going there. You’ve expressed your anger so many times, you know where it will lead. The desire to say something mean, to gossip or slander, to complain—to just somehow get rid of that aggression—is like a tidal wave. But you realize that such actions don’t get rid of the aggression; they escalate it. So instead you’re patient, patient with yourself.

–Pema Chodron

Around

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Sometimes I’m that one fish hanging out at the edge, trying to find a way in.

Sometimes I’m part of the crowd caught up in the energy of movement.

Sometimes I’m the shark in the distance, evaluating possibilities to devour.

And sometimes I’m just a bit of seaweed floating along.

a spiral school

Mommy Worries

How realistic is the expectation that an almost-2 child should self-amuse often and long? I know some mothers whose children of the same age will play for 30-60 minutes by themselves. I sometimes worry that I “play too much” with Bean. I do try to take little breaks to do chores, read, or blog, but often after 10-20 minutes she runs up saying, “Mommy come, Mommy come.” And she is in a repetitive stage, so she will utter that phrase until I relent; unfortunately this teaches and reinforces the behavior, and she learns that it takes “X repetitions” to get Mommy. Usually I try to stretch her a bit if I’m busy: “I’m cooking sweetie, I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” Sometimes I set a timer and tell her when it dings I’ll come play with her. When I do play, we’ll do it about 10-20 minutes at a time. Then I try to get up and do some more stuff. But here’s the point: I’m a stay-at-home mom for a reason, and that reason is to care for Bean. Part of caring is setting up different activities and participating in some of them. One of her biggest pleasures is reading books; lately it’s all the Richard Scarry books. Sometimes I feel like “disappearing” a few of them for a few days, because I am bored witless with them and almost at the end of my patience.

Another thing that I wonder about is her tantrums. Often when she is mad about not getting her way, she cries “I need a hug!” Or when she wants to be sure to get my attention she begs for a hug and cries. Or she announces, “I’m crying,” or “I’m sad (or mad),” or “I’m so sorry, Mommy!” The questions are: should I withhold a hug until she is calm and done having the tantrum? Or should I hold her if that helps to calm her down? Should I give her a hug when she is using it as a means to get my attention and pull me away from my own task?

Well, I’ve had my ten minutes, and now I’m being tugged and whined at for another thing. For now I’ll comfort myself with this excerpt from a blog and favorite book:

Lila has been driving me to the brink lately with the Being Two: the whining, the screaming, the abandoning of the diapers in random sodden heaps around the house, the eating nothing-but-blueberries-and-mini-marsmallows, the “Meeee dooooo!” the “No Mama sing!”

But last night I read this, on page 83 of Karen Maezen Miller’s excellent book, Momma Zen:

“Yes, it’s said that “two” is terrible, but can you consider the course load for a minute? Self-feeding and table skills, language, emotional management, toilet training, and social etiquitte for starters.

And all occuring amid the frightening undertow towards separation and independence. Throw in weaning, the big bed, and assorted other traumatic transitions such as a new sibling, babysitter or preschool, whenever they enter the picture. These kids are working in a coal mine!

Consider all of this as a way to conjure up more empathy on an ordinary day.”

Ahhh. Suddenly I feel better. Thanks Karen.

This book is an old Moms Are Talking About favorite, categorized under the intriguing label Parenting/Buddhism.

If you ask me, that’s a literary subgenre that really ought to have its own bookstore. Or planet. With free green tea and massages.

Meditation

I’ve been sitting daily for 20 minutes, and I’m amazed how frenetic my thoughts are. They are faster and more erratic than any toddler. I sit, eyes half open, aware of the breath in my nostrils and counting, and all the while it sounds like a cocktail party in my head:

Boy, I can’t believe SHE did THAT… Need to get bread, bananas, and bologna… Bean is such a sweetie… When is the auto shop going to call about the repair? …I wish our home had air conditioning… Wish we had a back yard… Ooo, forgot to send that email to… The litterbox needs scooping… How much longer do I need to sit here? My back is killing me… I need to scratch my nose.

Sometimes I don’t think thoughts as much as see images in my mind’s eye: me walking with Bean, the house we almost bought, our living room strewn with toys. All too often I catch myself traipsing down the path of thought or following the images and then I pull myself back into the present and focus on my breath again. Then there are moments when I am aware of all the chatter in the background but remain undistracted.

It’s difficult to do this, but I feel the impact already.

In The Moment

Life is prodding me to stay present and not borrow trouble in the future. This is a discipline, one that requires traipsing after my thoughts like I do after my toddler.

The microwave broke again, despite our being careful not to use the front burner to cook steamy things (which apparently caused the circuits to short out last December, because the cupboards are not built to code, and the microwave is too close to the stovetop). It was a very expensive ($400+) repair the first time. Do you know how much we use a microwave? Dozens of times a day.

I mentioned this frustration at a play date, and another mother gave me a microwave that was sitting unused in her garage. They’ve bought a new house, so it’s one less thing for her to move as well. My problem is half-solved!
—
My knee has been cracking more frequently of late. Yes, the knee that had surgery. It’s not the kneecap (though that cracks a little occasionally), but the femur and tibia crack when I walk up stairs or move certain ways. It hurts, too. I can’t produce the problem on command, however, so pinpointing it will be hard. I’ve started to compensate for my lack of confidence in that leg by limping a little, which has worsened the pain in my left heel as well. I feel old again. There will be no easy solution to this.
—
This morning my little Bean and Husband gave me sweet cards that made me cry, some perfume (“my” scent that I’ve used 15 years), and Lindor truffles. Husband got up with me at 6 a.m. and made us pancakes for breakfast. We went to a park for 90 minutes, and then we went to look at a house. We liked it. It might be the one. But we’ll see. Mustn’t get ahead of ourselves.
—

For Me

After nap, I went out with Bean to run an errand, and I found myself driving past the Chung Tai Zen Center of Sunnyvale. I’d heard of them a couple years ago but never pursued actually locating the center. I’d also been on a mailing list for another Zen center in Mountain View, but I just haven’t gotten there yet.

As I drove by, I told myself I’d stop in next Wednesday when the babysitter relieves me for awhile. Then I changed my mind, because I felt nudged to take action right then. So I unloaded Bean (who was wearing her cheap sunglasses on a rainy day) and carried her in with me.

I was greeted effusively by a monk who was very sweet to Bean. I told them I had stopped in on a whim and that I wondered if they held sessions or classes. I was introduced to the Vice Abbott who gave me some handouts. He had led us to a classroom where he I think planned to give me time to read the material and then return to answer questions I had, but with Bean that wasn’t feasible. So we chatted briefly, and I learned that they are just about to offer their next session of classes. Each class is two hours, with the first hour being instruction and the second being meditation.

The level 1 class involves learning about meditation methods: breath-counting, mindfulness of the breath, middle way reality (a Zen practice). The topics covered are introduction to Buddhism and Zen, Karma and causality, the Four Noble Truths (suffering, the causes of suffering, nirvana, the Noble Eightfold Path), Three Refuges, Five Precepts. This class is on Saturday afternoons and is three months long.

The one hitch is that the time of class, 3-5 p.m., falls directly into the time we usually attend open houses. Some open houses are only held on Saturdays. While we are taking May off from searching, we do plan to return to house hunting later. My attendance at class will interfere with this. But this is something I really need. Husband supports me doing this, and I consider my timing propitious.

So that’s where I will spend next Saturday afternoon. Yay me.