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.)
>>>
>>>
>>>
>>>
>>>
>>>
>>>
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