Pictures Of Time Passing

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I had this big plan. I was going to write you all an awesome story about busy-ness and balance and not really finding it but finding it a little. Now, instead, because the internet is lame, because duty calls, because people arrive, because life happens, it’s eleven o’clock at night and you get a summary.

What I want is to find a way to do each thing well if not often. And maybe even that I can’t manage. I miss writing when I don’t write. I haven’t written recently. I miss the space that opens when I take time to put words to the chains of thoughts reeling out in my mind. I miss the crystalline edges of ideas that appear that I can shine a light to and look at from all angles. But I guess sometimes all you can manage is a few pretty sentences and some ideas with raggedy edges snatched hastily out of the air.

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This last week was…BIG. We welcomed a very illustrious Dane by the name of Lama Ole Nydahl at Dhagpo. He’s a student of the 16th Karmapa and the founder of over 600 centers worldwide that share the same lineage as ours. He also sometimes refers to himself as a Viking and is infamous for inserting polemics into his teachings–polyamory and the Israel/Palestine conflict among them. He kissed me on both cheeks when he arrived, kissed the hand of Julie, the event coordinator, and then said, in French no less, “One beauty after another.” I think I chuckled. I hope it wasn’t too audible.

It was eleven at night and he is not a young man, but he set off direct at good clip straight toward the stupa, and when he reached it, he stopped and touched his head to the white massif. The energy zooming around him stilled for a moment and I thought, “Okay, fine. I get it. We are from the same family.” I might sometimes find Lama Ole more cheesy and peppy than the approach to Buddhism that speaks most clearly to me, but the man’s on a mission and he’s carrying it out well. That I can respect.

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Not that I had much time to think about it. I spent the week navigating between guest-welcoming, meal-cooking (including this cake), and team-managing. Somewhere in the busy-ness, I learned something about discomfort. I was tired and little bit sick for most of the week. But things needed to be accomplished and most of things involved other people, so being a droopy, grumpy mess was not really an option. So I just did the things. I think I did them more slowly and at times with less vigor or enthusiasm than I would like or than maybe would be inspiring to others nearby, but I didn’t give into the usual habit of resisting or wishing to be elsewhere or wanting confirmation that the situation was hard and sympathy for such. I just did the things.

And being tired and sick was maybe less tiring and painful than it is when I don’t have lots of things to do and I let myself gripe and be woeful. The discomforts of this life don’t stop, neither for the summer rush, nor for summer vacation. It’s disappointing that there’s no such thing as a break from conditioned existence. It’s also a good reminder of why it’s so important to learn how to live with and eventually move beyond the distractions and occupations of this world, and thus the suffering that accompanies them.

IMG_2231When the rush slowed down, though it’s not done yet, (T-2 days to freedom, i.e. the end of Dhagpo summer, i.e. the end of uber busy season), I started drawing again. Just trying to check in and see what’s happening under all the layers of busy-ness. Drawing is like breathing in after not realizing you’ve been holding your breath. Connecting through images brings an energy that I didn’t realize I was missing, but when it comes back, I suddenly understand why everything seemed so dim before.

It’s 11:36 p.m. Grumble. I set out to write this post at 9 o’clock. It was early. And peaceful. And I had time. And then all of the aforementioned interventions. At times I feel like I am fighting to hold on to all of the things I care about. But if I stop fighting, I am afraid of what I will lose. But where do lost things go? And where is the person who loses them?

Am I in my bones? My blood, my skin, my sort of exaggerated late-night sighs? Am I in my words, my pictures, all the cakes that have been made and eaten? Am I in my thoughts, my memories, my future, or my mind? If I took a wrench and unscrewed all the pieces, would I also be unscrewed or would I be a little bit in every little piece?

I know the answer. But no matter how much I go looking and find that I am nowhere to be found, I can’t help feeling like I’m here.

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