Pre-Holidays And Persimmon Pudding

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Happy Solstice! This photo is blurry, but if you look at it like it’s an abstract painting, it works. The colors! It was like that in real life.

And happy Monlam too! I woke up at four this morning to watch the livestream of the final day of Kagyu prayers in Bodh Gaya, and well, I’m a little loopy now for the lost sleep, but it was totally worth it. It’s good to be part of a community that cares about beings.

I’m enjoying the unexpected arrival of Christmas break (yeah, even Buddhists take off for Christmas). Even though I knew it was coming, the fact that I’d get, like, time off, hadn’t really registered until I sent off my fully finished budget and realized I suddenly no longer had a list of grueling, urgent things to do.

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Even though I spent most of this week totally exhausted whilst trying to check off all the things on the aforementioned list, now that it’s break, I just feel, like I’m floating. Carried by a breeze. Life is happening, and I get to be part of it.

I have dreams and plans and goals and wishes. I have people to work on them with and exchange field notes along the way. The above comes from the first-ever meeting of Dhagpo’s newly-formed Tibetan language study group. I can very haltingly respond to the question, “What’s your name?” and I can pretty much pronounce the alphabet right (-ish, if I stare at the ceiling and spit a lot for certain letters).

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Tomorrow I’m heading to Bordeaux to pick up the sis, for a ground-breaking, non-family-unit Christmas. It’s a little strange, but hey, things change and even if my family doesn’t look the same on Christmas as it used to, I have this feeling that we’re all on the right track even if it’s not easy. And that matters more.

Because Solstice and Christmas and even this pseudo-cold weather we’re having mean making all baked goods loaded with spices, here’s a perfect holiday recipe. Before today, I’d eaten persimmon pudding once in my life (at a friend’s house in high school, homemade by her mom with persimmons from the backyard), but the experience so marked me with its deliciousness that I vowed to one day recreate it. When one of my new English students sent me home with a bag of hachiya persimmons, I knew what was coming down the line. Tender, moist-to-almost-gooey, earthyfruityspicy winter goodness. Also, it’s gluten free, because I can.

Recipe…

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S’mores Cake and The Slow Life

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This is birthday cake. According to my cohort here at the center, it’s also the best cake I’ve yet to make. There were some mutters that the red velvet might still give it a run for its money, but all-told, it was a major hit. As was intended. I made it for the only other resident American, and I felt the need to go all-out for the sake of nationalistic solidarity, and well, also, because s’mores. The French don’t know or understand them, and I’m not sure this cake really clarified the situation as it only resembles its inspiration in flavor and not at all in form, but in any case, I’ve convinced them that this strange American phenomena called a “s’more” is a good and delicious thing.

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This picture is blurry and not the most tantalizing, but you can see the tattooed hand of the birthday boy in the background, and so I decided to include it. He’s off gallivanting around India for the next month, taking spectacular photos and bringing together art, communication, and the amazing lineage of Tibetan Buddhism we have the good fortune to be a part of.

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I’m keeping it real in the Dordogne writing budgets for the Lama House and trying to train myself to read practice texts with something resembling a proper Tibetan accent. If you want to see me stare intently at the ceiling and spit a lot while I try to produce a convincing ཁ (kha), stop by the community room after lunch, where my patient friend Julie gives me pointers based on her studies in Katmandu. I might not be able to speak yet, but I can hear alright, and I’m grateful to have somebody around with a decent accent and the generosity to help me work on mine. Also, I’ve started giving English lessons to a few folks who live nearby, which is a blast honestly and a nice way to meet people in a different context than my role as an uber-busy volunteer. It’s been a very linguistic couple of weeks, I guess.

I wouldn’t say that life is exciting, but it’s enriching. I’ve taken to listening to Brahms’ violin sonatas while doing office work, and yesterday a few of us took a break from the daily grind to share a hearthside dinner at a friend’s house; such things give me this strange feeling of settling inside. That despite my longtime penchant for wandering and adventure-seeking, I’m learning something about stillness. How to find the joy and the resources to get through and even appreciate the slow-going, unglamorous business of doing what needs to be done.

IMG_2983Recipe follows… Continue reading

Return From The Quiet

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I’m baaaack…

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I call it quiet ’cause I did bit less talking whilst away, but let’s be real. It’s noisy inside this mind.

Still, the time to take a look around at what all’s jangling about in here, change the wallpaper, dust off a few corners…it’s a gift. Not to mention getting to do so in a pristine corner of the Auvergnat countryside.

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To seep up early winter sunshine, feed the koi fish, and breathe clean air without worries of tomorrow or next week or who might need what when, with simply focus and practice to color the days. It’s more than pretty good. I’m grateful is all.

Grateful too for the life I come back to. Even the meetings and budgets and backload of e-mails. Glad to belong to something meaningful and to share it with others who give a damn about each other and what we can try to do in a lifetime.

Grateful for the time to pause and notice it all.

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Given

IMG_2758 I run the risk of getting into enormous trouble for posting this photo on the Internet. But it’s worth it, because this lady deserves an homage.

This is my momma. I put her on a train today, and cried through my smile as it rolled away from me down the tracks. It’s been a year almost since I saw her last, and I dunno when I will see her next and somehow this uncertainty and distance magnifies every part of what we share.

This person brought me into this world. And kept me here and showed me how things are done around here. And put up with me learning. I can’t get my head around that. The accumulation of so many lived moments, so many instants of deciding to love some one and to act for them and accept for them. So many hours puking while pregnant, so many perfectly packed lunchboxes, so many teenage crises, so many Thanksgiving turkeys, so many hugs goodbye on so many uncertain adventures, so many inconsistent calls from distant places, so many grand plans, so many sudden changes.

These last two weeks with my mom are for us, but the lessons of them are for everyone I love, most especially my parents. I’d have to write a book to explain it, and maybe I will someday, but tomorrow I’m heading off for ten-day retreat and I still have ducks to line up, so forgive me for the shadowy summary:

Everything I have, have ever had, has been given to me. Opportunities, resources, kindness, skills, things. Sometimes I’ve had to put work in to realize them or receive them, but in every case, there was somebody on the other side offering…either creating the conditions for me to achieve or acquire something, or quite simply handing it over. So this post is for astonishment, and for gratitude. And for wanting to be worth all of these offerings, to offer as much back.

Tomorrow I’m taking to the road with seven other adventurers to spend a week and a half looking at our minds and living with each other while doing so. Practicing focus, practicing kindness. It’s part of this road of learning how to care for others (and me too!). It also means a bit radio silence in this little corner of the internet for anyone keeping track. But don’t worry, I’ll be back. Your readership is a gift and I’m grateful to show up for it.

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I Used To Wish I Could Live In A Castle

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Light the hall with braziers, wear only dancing shoes, and parade a thousand dresses with patterns to outdo the wallpaper.

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I used to wish for banquets and balls. Sunken gardens and painting studios aglow with northern light. Woods to get lost in on horseback, libraries with shelves so tall that ladders glide along their lengths. I used to wish for long set tables and the sound of horse-drawn carriages on cobblestones. Long rows of cabbages and carrots, the gentle cluck of hens. Simmering pots over open fires and the click of silverware near smiling faces. Four poster beds and feather pillows.

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Castles were color; prosperity; joy.

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This was, I guess, before I knew that in their day, castles’ abundance came at the expense of starving peasants. That their inhabitants bathed but once a year. That many died of lead poisoning for the vanity of their powdered faces. That artists lived in hovels uncared for by their patrons and the northern light of upstairs rooms was reserved for the embroidery to which women were restricted.

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Not so awesome, actually.

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The life of castles was one of luxury and abandon, for the most part. A fire that burns bright and then goes out. What became of all the knights and ladies? Probably not much I’d care to follow.

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And yet, there’s still something about those windows over the river. All that golden light, so much imagined laughter.

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I guess I would still take one, if you offered. Is the heating bill included?

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We could make something of castle, put its sturdy old beauty to good use.

We could fill a castle with little round cushions and people seated cross-legged. Maybe put Nagarjuna next to Maupassant along the library walls. Switch out the Sun King for Buddha Shakyamuni. It could be fun.

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Not that we really need castles for the good work of the path. We can do it anywhere. It’s just a memory I have, even if a bit misplaced. Castles were togetherness and safety. Now they’re just museums, but the imagery remains. And I can’t help asking…

Is a banquet or a ball entirely frivolous, or can we still don dancing shoes from time to time, on the road out of samsara?