Whine Me

Greetings,

The 1st Provincial Whiner Convention got under way today, hey say children, "Can you whine with the best of them?"

"Yeah man, I started whining when I found out, being an only child in a one-child takes all crap game, that whining is a fantastic way to get things you want," said Faceless. "I wanted a lot then and I want more now."

"That's nothing," said Insecure, another whining contestant. "Whining is a fine art in my book. I've never read it because I'm lazy but I know how to whine with feeling. I've had practice. I practiced on my parents, practiced on my grandparents and now I practice on my friends. A little whine here and there works wonders. You ain't never get any good at whining in life without practice."

A whine went up from the crowd.

"We want a REAL whiner. These are fakes. They have no skill, ability, creativity or enthusiasm for whining. Send them back to Whiner Elementary. They are whining failures. Poor."

"Ok, ok," said Maladjusted, a whiner with a degree in Manipulation.

"How's this?" and they started yelling and screaming, contorting their face into tears, stamping their feet demanding instant gratification.

"Give it to me now! 
"Give it to me now! 
"Give it to me now!
"I will whine until you give it to me!"
"I am a spoiled brat and I demand you to give it to me NOW!

The crowd gratefully swallowed the passive-aggressive whining performance.

"Not bad," one whiner said to another whiner. 
They voted with their feet to Whiner Street to practice whining in public.

Street Eats

Smile. We will help you practice.

See the Beauty and Cruelty without hope or fear.

The Middle Way - detachment and wisdom.

Our perceptions are empty.

Suffering is an illusion.

Passion and process.

It existed somewhere between an object and a concept.

The Enlightenment Factory

I drag my mother to impossible places, said Asian daughter #1.

I follow my daughter to impossible places, said her mother, following her daughter's shadow. The slanting afternoon sun in LP is behind and beyond them.

Mother's shadow comforts her daughter's back.

Mother carries water.

Her daughter carries love seeing her husband, a thin bearded memory waiting.

Memory waits.

Patience becomes Memory.

Memory dances with sparrows.

Attention! says frangipani releasing itself, falling.

It landed on a steel PSP roof.

Bang. Thunk. Not hard and not soft enough to create a sounds wave.

It bounced into stillness. Air twirled it, it flew up, away. It floated to the ground. It's floating Beauty penetrated eyes, cones, retinal rods of a man sitting. He picked it up. He inhaled fragrance. Zap.

Beauty has no tongue.

Practice is allowing everything in your life to wake you up.

Boudhanath

Namaste,

The road from Bhaktapur to Boudhanath is paved or broken or nonexistent.

Broken dirt rutted cement narrow filled with humans and black belching diseased smoke. Green fields, planting, turning dirt, harvesting beans, potatoes, cauliflower, hauling wicker baskets to market. Soldiers running their future, pounding old boots past a rising forest. Mountains run in shadows. Children in cold dawn light brush white teeth.

It's a returning to Tibet. Pilgrimage around around around circumambulation. Chanting prayers, earning merit. A shift from the Hindu spirit world of Shiva, Brahma and Vishnu. A feeling of peace and tranquility permeates your walking meditation.

Spin prayer wheels.

Lhasa Morning Meditation. We slow down. Each step is a breath. As before, in other planetary places we savor the beginning of a new day becoming - cold, isolated, sublime mysterious reality. The street blends into the circuit. Go to the main square.

Two large chorten furnaces are breathing fire, sending plumes of gray and black smoke into the sky. Figures of all ages and energies, sellers of juniper and cedar. Buyers collect their offerings - throw sweet smelling twigs into the roaring fire, finger prayer beads and resume their pilgrimage. Merit.

We join the flow, shuffling along. Feel the softness being with the ageless way of meditation, a walking meditation.

It is a peaceful manifestation of the eternal now. The  vast self vibration of frequencies in the flow. Our restless wandering ghost spirit feels the peace and serenity inside the flow.

The sky fills with clear light. As above, so below. Prayer flags lining roofs sing in the wind as incense smoke curls away. The shuffling pilgrims create a ceaseless wave - the sound of muted consistent steps, clicking of prayer beads, a gentle hum of turning prayer wheels, murmurs of mantras from lips. Everything is clear and focused on offering, sacrifice, gaining merit in the collective unconscious. Our river flows.

Dawn light blesses eastern snow capped mountains with a pink glow. A black faced half-naked boy throws himself down and out on his hands and knees prostrating the length of his skinny skeleton. He wears slabs of wood on his hands and an old brown apron. He edges forward, pulling himself along, rises, gestures to the sky, hands together, down along his skin out and down to the ground scrapping away flesh edging forward inside shuffling pilgrims. His eyes are on fire!

One completes one circuit after another, circling the Jokhang, the spiritual center of Tibet. More light, more people ascending into the square - handfuls of juniper feed roaring flames, Crack! Hiss! Burn! Back to Dust!

You will walk through the fire. Do this practice every day.

Metta.

 

Just One Breath

Greetings,

Here is a fine article on Poetry and Meditation by Gary Snyder in Tricycle. Beyond wild.

Teasing the demonic 
Wrestling the wrathful 
Laughing with the lustful 
Seducing the shy 
Wiping dirty noses and sewing torn shirts 
Sending philosophers home to their wives in time for dinner 
Dousing bureaucrats in rivers 
Taking mothers mountain climbing 
Eating the ordinary

Metta.