Let me guess Dan, The following day, having pondered the koan, that same (now less-hurried) driver went back, re-erected the sign, and approached the temple with a more relevant open thought, and was welcomed with open arms ?
Regards Ian On Tue, May 5, 2009 at 9:01 AM, Dan Glover <[email protected]> wrote: > > > Driving down the road one day, in a hurry as usual, I caught sight of a sign > just as I passed it. Curious, I made a u-turn and went back. The sign said: > Buddist Temple and just below that was a little hand-painted note that said: > All Are Welcome. So I drove into the compound. I parked the car in the > parking lot and walked into the temple. > > Your sign is misspelled, I told the young man at the counter. He laughed a > loud belly laugh. I thought maybe he hadn't understood me. I explained that > there should be an "h" in Buddhist. He laughed again, this time falling to > the floor and rolling around as he grabbed his sides with his hands as if his > ribs hurt from laughing so hard. > > About this time an older man appeared from behind some curtains, apparently > drawn by the laughter. Thinking that the older man was in charge, I > approached him. He wore a long orange robe and he looked quite regal from a > distance but as he got closer I could see many tattered rips in his robe that > had been carefully repaired and I could see his nose hair needed trimming. > The man looked very old. > > Hey mister, I said, I thought you should know that your sign out on the road > is misspelled. It should read B-U-D-D-H-I-S-T, not Buddist. He looked at me a > long time without saying a word. I thought perhaps he didn't speak English. I > looked over my shoulder for the younger man who could perhaps translate for > me but he had disappeared. > > When I looked back towards the old man, he had turned around and was walking > back through the curtain from where he'd first appeared. He waved a hand over > his shoulder as if motioning me to follow. So I did. We walked down a long > hallway, made a turn to the left, and then a turn to the right, and emerged > outside close to where I parked. The old man motioned me to get in my car, so > I did. Then he waved goodbye. So I drove off. > > On my way out of the compound, I stopped, pulled down the Buddist Temple > sign, and threw it in the weeds that grew by the road. > > > ---------------------------------------- >> Date: Mon, 4 May 2009 01:44:29 -0700 >> From: [email protected] >> To: [email protected] >> Subject: Re: [MD] (no subject) >> >> >> dan you *never* have to justify man >> >> >> >> --- On Mon, 4/5/09, Dan Glover wrote: >> >> From: Dan Glover >> Subject: Re: [MD] (no subject) >> To: [email protected] >> Received: Monday, 4 May, 2009, 3:36 PM >> >> >> >> Hi KO >> >> Thank you for writing. I think you're right that it isn't good to be >> preoccuppied with the past. Still, to understand the world it's necessary to >> realize the temporary nature of it all, not to just pay it lip service. In >> that context, the most important thing to realize is the nature of suffering. >> >> In order to understand that, it seems best to examine my experience through >> my writing. When I write I find it impossible to relate the recent past; >> rather it takes quite a number of years to go by until I can do the story >> justice. So yes, I delve into the past. >> >> I know I can never accurately represent the world through my writing. What I >> can do though is draw upon certain emotions and feelings that I've >> experience in life and hopefully relate them in such a fashion that others >> may experience those emotions and feelings as well. >> >> We're only truly tested in facing adversity. When everything is hunkey dorey >> and the world is a wonderful place, there's no need to examine a thing. But >> when we're confronted with adversity, we're forced to examine ourselves. So >> for me it seems best to look at those particularly trying times in my life. >> >> Mi vida Dinámica was very difficult for me to put key by key to screen. It >> is without doubt the toughest piece of writing I've yet undertaken. The very >> rough draft I sent to you all here constitutes the heart of the story but I >> can see how I might endlessly add to it as I gradually remember other >> details as the direct result of remembering itself. >> >> When I see the bickering that sometimes goes on in this forum, I think to >> myself: how lucky these folks are! They have someone who cares enough to >> challenge their belief system and perhaps one day they'll better understand >> their true nature. As I am less inclined to bicker, I have only myself to >> challenge. >> >> Thanks again for writing, and your concern. >> >> Dan >> >> ---------------------------------------- >>> Date: Thu, 30 Apr 2009 08:42:50 +0100 >>> From: [email protected] >>> To: [email protected] >>> Subject: Re: [MD] Mi vida Dinámica >>> >>> Hi Dan, >>> >>> it was a pleasure to read about your first marriage but it seems from your >>> account that you are still preoccupied by that long past interlude in your >>> life. I suggest that you might resolve your feelings into a more positive >>> outlook by making your current wife know the essentials of what happened >>> back then; it is fair to her as she must see aspects of your behaviour >>> shaped by your past experience that she cannot understand because she does >>> not know of what happened to you; you would also honour the memory of your >>> first love instead of denying it. Lastly, 'when the light of this marvelous >>> world' finally starts to grow dim for you, then, that is the time, to think >>> with all your imagination of finally meeting Yoli and Luis again. >>> >>> -KO >>> >>> 2009/4/28 Dan Glover >>> >>>> >>>> >>>> Meditations - On Loss and the Nature of Suffering >>>> >>>> "I was pregnant," Lila said. >>>> >>>> "How old were you?" >>>> >>>> "Sixteen. Seventeen when she was born." >>>> >>>> "That's too young," The Captain said. [LILA] >>>> >>>> >>>> In the spring, she'd wear apple blossoms in her hair. The flowers' >>>> whiteness contrasted so with the darkness of her skin and hair and eyes >>>> that >>>> my heart bled and my breath sometimes caught short in my chest, as if I >>>> were >>>> drowning in the spell of her beauty. Sometimes, still, when I am drifting >>>> off to sleep or maybe just waking, I think I hear her voice... she's saying >>>> my name; I fancy the way it rolls off the tip of her tongue with that >>>> little >>>> hint of accent. She calls me Daniel. No one ever called me by that name >>>> before and no one has called me by that name since. >>>> >>>> We married young. Her name was Yolanda. I called her Yoli. I remember she >>>> smelled of incense and her lips tasted of peppermint and wild strawberries >>>> and we couldn't touch enough of each other. Back then, when people talked >>>> about us - and they did talk about this goofy gringo and that crazy Spanish >>>> chick - they said we "had" to get married. They didn't understand. We >>>> wanted >>>> to get married. The baby merely gave us an excuse. I like to think we >>>> taught >>>> each other what it meant to love. >>>> >>>> We lived in Traverse City, Michigan in a little yellow house with white >>>> wooden shutters on the sides of the windows and a big back yard surrounded >>>> by trees in a quiet older part of town. There wasn't much work there except >>>> logging, after they closed the plastic factory where we worked together, >>>> where we first met. >>>> >>>> After that, I hired on to work with a crew that clear-cut trees and brush >>>> off of hillsides up in Canada in an area about six hours drive north. Of >>>> course it was too far to drive back and forth so we'd stay two weeks at a >>>> time, sleeping in tents or the back of trucks. Back then we didn't have >>>> cell >>>> phones or GPS. When we were on site there was no timely way of reaching us. >>>> I needed the work. There were bills to pay and a baby on the way. >>>> >>>> Yoli was seven months pregnant when I left her to go north. The doctor said >>>> not to worry... she wasn't due for a while. I'd only be gone a couple >>>> weeks. >>>> She was seventeen and all alone; she must have been scared, but she never >>>> let on if she was. I was eighteen and didn't know any better, or I would >>>> have never left her side. >>>> >>>> A Jeep showed up at the job site three days after we arrived. I remember >>>> seeing the dust from miles away. An uneasy feeling came over me. Whoever it >>>> was, they were moving too fast for those loose gravel roads. There had to >>>> be >>>> a reason. The Jeep came out of the trees and slid to a halt. A man climbed >>>> out and came running up the hill calling my name as he ran. He said he had >>>> bad news, that I better come with him and get in the Jeep and go back >>>> south, >>>> right now. I did. On the way he explained that Yolanda had had a >>>> miscarriage >>>> but she was going to be okay. >>>> >>>> When I got to the hospital I found out the man had lied; I couldn't blame >>>> him. He probably didn't know how to tell me the truth. I wouldn't have >>>> known >>>> how were it me doing the telling. Yolanda passed away shortly after giving >>>> birth to our son. The doctor said he tried to save her but he couldn't stop >>>> the bleeding. He tried his best. He assured me that everyone tried their >>>> best. >>>> >>>> It was the middle of the night and he was just an intern and there was so >>>> much blood. He kept saying it, over and over... there was so much blood, so >>>> much blood... and shaking his lowered head and staring at his hands as if >>>> they were still stained red while tears ran down his face. She had a >>>> ruptured uterus; he didn't know what else to do so she laid there and died >>>> while they tried to reach a real doctor. I sat there, listening, silently >>>> weeping into a crumpled paper towel I had the presence of mind to stick >>>> into >>>> my back pocket. I waited until later to do my screaming. Alone. >>>> >>>> They named our son Daniel. He lived for two hours. He was born too early. >>>> We planned to name him Luis, after her grandfather. But no one knew that >>>> save us. The priest wanted a name for the baptism before our son died. A >>>> nurse suggested they use my name. I remember being a bit put out at the >>>> time. Now though, whenever I see that name, his name, my name, I think of >>>> him. I've come to see it as both curse and blessing. >>>> >>>> My brother and his girlfriend had a baby about that same time, a boy. They >>>> gave him up for adoption. They said they weren't ready. We weren't ready >>>> either, Yoli and me. But there was no way we were going to give up little >>>> Luis. We were a family. I don't understand my brother's decision. We've >>>> never talked about it but I bet he doesn't understand either. At the time >>>> it >>>> appeared to me that life wasn't as fair as I thought it should be. I've >>>> since come to see that I was wrong. >>>> >>>> Not long afterwards, I remarried, raised another family, and eventually >>>> divorced. My first marriage happened so fast it's almost like it never >>>> occurred at all. All I have left are a couple old wrinkled pictures of Yoli >>>> smiling her smile into the camera and our cheap gold-plated wedding rings >>>> that I keep together on a little silver-looking chain in an old tattered >>>> shoe box full of treasures I've accumulated along the way. >>>> >>>> The kids don't know about my first family. I never told them. I saw no >>>> reason. I started to tell my second wife but I could see she didn't care to >>>> hear about it so I never brought it up again. In fact, this is the first >>>> time I've come close to telling it to anyone in detail. >>>> >>>> I am not sure why I am writing about it now. I find it makes me very sad. >>>> Writing out these beautifully terrible memories deep into dark lonely >>>> nights >>>> helps give rise to the most vicious morning headaches. I can barely deal >>>> with them; I'm not good with physical pain... and I never have headaches, >>>> not like this, not until now. It seems better to write than not, I suppose, >>>> but I'm in no way sure about that. >>>> >>>> Aspirin and coffee for breakfast allows me to face yet another day. It's >>>> either that or whiskey and dirt. And I'm not ready for dirt. Besides, maybe >>>> some day some distant descendant of mine will want to know who I was, and >>>> why. Maybe these bits and pieces of a battered and bruised heart will help >>>> tell the tale, for what it's worth. Maybe I owe it to them, somehow. >>>> >>>> I remember Yoli's mother hugging me at the funeral, whispering in my ear, >>>> accusing me: ustedes hizo esto. All I could say was: Yo sé. I know. I felt >>>> so guilty. I should have been there. It's been over thiry five years but it >>>> feels like yesterday. I still curse myself for my ignorance. I buried Yoli >>>> and Daniel together and went back to work. But just to tell the boss I >>>> quit. >>>> I couldn't do it anymore. >>>> >>>> I've tried to live a Good life. I'm probably not the best father nor was I >>>> as good a husband as I might have been. I suppose none of that matters as >>>> much as it would in a more perfect world. Even knowing of this world's >>>> flaws >>>> though, I sometimes think I should have more regrets than I do. If I >>>> believed I was in control of anything at all, perhaps I would. I know that >>>> I >>>> am not. >>>> >>>> I feel as shiftless as a broken leaf blowing in the brisk spring breeze, >>>> bereft of even any hope of finding solace. I know I will finally land where >>>> I will, lay there a short while, and then rot back into the ash from which >>>> I >>>> sprang. It is (of course) the way. >>>> >>>> Yet, were I still a good Catholic I think I should like to believe that >>>> when the light of this marvelous world finally dies for good I'll see Yoli >>>> and Daniel again standing there waiting for me at the edge of some nameless >>>> green forest with wide smiles on their faces and a deep knowing in their >>>> eyes. Disbeliever that I am, I do confess to sometimes wondering though if >>>> they'd remember me... >>>> >>>> "He stood there for a long time looking around outside. Then he looked back >>>> down at her. >>>> >>>> "How old is your baby now?" he asked. >>>> >>>> That surprised her. That was a new one. "What do you want to know that >>>> for?" >>>> >>>> "I already told you before I started asking all these questions," he said. >>>> >>>> "She's dead." >>>> >>>> "How did she die?" he asked. >>>> >>>> "I killed her," she said. >>>> >>>> She watched his eyes. She didn't like them. He looked mean. >>>> >>>> "You mean accidentally," he said. >>>> >>>> "I didn't cover her right and she smothered," Lila said. "That was long >>>> ago." >>>> >>>> "Nobody blamed you though." >>>> >>>> "Nobody had to. What could they say. . . that I didn't already know?" >>>> [LILA] >>>> >>>> Comfortably numb, >>>> >>>> Dan >>>> >>>> >>>> Mi vida Dinámica >>>> >>>> Somos arcilla sin voz, mi hijo, >>>> todavía no se formó >>>> antes de la memoria espléndido. >>>> >>>> (My Dynamic Life >>>> >>>> We are voiceless clay, my son, >>>> not yet formed >>>> before the wonderful memory.) >>>> >>>> >>>> >>>> >>>> >>>> >>>> >> _________________________________________________________________ >> Windows Live™: Keep your life in sync. >> http://windowslive.com/explore?ocid=TXT_TAGLM_BR_life_in_synch_052009 >> Moq_Discuss mailing list >> Listinfo, Unsubscribing etc. >> http://lists.moqtalk.org/listinfo.cgi/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org >> Archives: >> http://lists.moqtalk.org/pipermail/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org/ >> http://moq.org.uk/pipermail/moq_discuss_archive/ >> >> >> >> Enjoy a better web experience. Upgrade to the new Internet Explorer 8 >> optimised for Yahoo!7. 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