Last year, I wrote a post about the lawsuits of hot yoga businessman Bikram against other yoga teachers using similar poses/sequences to the ones his studios offer. In that post, I wrote the following:

I find lawsuits of this nature, involving attempts to control the spread of religious/spiritual practices and teachings, quite troubling. Finding the line between an individual or organization’s new and original work, and the historical underpinnings of that work is rarely an easy task. In addition, the whole infusion of monetary settlements, patent rights, and proprietary controls, while seemingly a correct response in a capitalist society, creates a shift away from basic protections of religious/spiritual teachers and institutions, and towards a corporate re-culturing.

The decision by the Indian government to patent yoga poses is a direct response to the actions of people like Bikram. It’s also an intelligent counter-use of a capital tool in my opinion. This isn’t the first time India has gone this route. Some of you might recall that the neem tree was under threat for decades, until multiple court cases led to the revoking of patents in 2005. Biopiracy continues to be a major threat across the globe, however, as are other aspects of the modern colonialism, which is what the actions of folks like Bikram should rightly be called.

Trying to claim ownership over ancient spiritual practices is a pretty sick business. But it’s been a quite popular one.

In the United States alone, the patent authorities have issued more than 130 yoga-related patents, 150 copyrights and 2,300 trademarks related to the ancient practice.

I’ll be honest. The entire patent system is problematic in my view. It assumes a kind of individualism and separated genius I just don’t believe in. And so, I hope actions like this one by Indian leaders might eventually lead to a rethinking of the whole works.

Image Credit

Vrksasana @ Flickr

India Patents Yoga Poses is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

Whether you want to admit it or not, charitable giving is probably not one of your highest priorities. You have bills to pay, food to buy, and a social life to fund, or worse, children to raise. Throwing two-dollars into the tin shaken at the traffic lights doesn’t count, not really. When it comes to charitable giving, we humans aren’t the most charitable of creatures.

As a Christian, this has taken on another level of guilt for me, as I am ‘commanded’ to put aside a certain amount of money for the ‘work of the Lord’, a very religious sounding way of saying charitable giving.

At least, that’s how I have interpreted it.

Some people assume that Christian giving – tithing – is automatically intended for the church. Well, sure, there are some who might want to give to the church, but I sure as hell don’t. I want my money going somewhere where it is actually needed.

And one need only look for a few minutes in the New Testament of the Bible for examples of Jesus giving to the poor or doing something for the needy.

But still, giving is a difficult thing to do. Seeing a portion of your income disappear so regularly is – for some – too hard. This is especially the case in times when finances are tight and there isn’t a lot of money coming in to begin with.

All of these things led me to devise my own method of giving charitably. Because, in the end, not only did I feel a faith-related call to do so, but I could see that it was a necessary part of my being human; I am better off than others, and therefore I want to give.

So what do I do?

I buy myself clothes.

You see, I need clothes. Whether it’s a T-Shirt or a hoodie, clothing my body is a necessity, and something that I have the funds to manage.

These days you are paying $20 to $30 for a good T-Shirt (I’m in Australia) that won’t disintegrate the moment it is pulled over your head. So I ask myself two questions; why not buy a good one, and why not buy one that supports a charity.

My favourite example of this is the website Sevenly.

According to their website, their mission is:

to harness the power of art and community to build sustainable awareness and funding movements that support charities in their efforts to change the world

Their purpose:

we believe in the value of the human being, and that there is no greater calling than to provide, heal, rescue, and serve others

and their vision is:

to be the world’s most effective cause activation platform leading a generation toward intentional generosity and love for others.

And they do all of this by providing for purchase a new T-Shirt or hoodie each week, from which $7 will go to the designated charity being highlighted that week. Seven dollars from every T-Shirt, and a new T-Shirt every seven days. Sevenly.

Over the past few months they have donated tens of thousands of dollars to a variety of charities: Clothes4Souls, Autism Speaks, Somaly Mam Foundation, Pencils in Promise, and many more. Since their start in June of 2011, Sevenly has raised a total of over $320,000, a number that just keeps growing with each week and charity that passes. I’ve never yet seen them miss a target.

And there are more organisations out there. Another favourite of mine is the Yellow Bird Project, which combines the hip and cool bands from the indie/alternative band scene with charitable giving.

Giving can be hard, and turning it into a chance to get something may sound selfish, but when your purchase goes to provide a child in Africa with mosquito netting, or provides a kid in Bolivia with clothing … well, do you think those kids are asking how?

Image Credit

“People Matter” from Sevenly

Making Charitable Giving More Palatable is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

I recently read an article in the National Catholic Reporter that resonated with something I have been thinking about for a few years now. The article, written by regular NCR columnist Jamie L Manson, tells the story of the community of Spiritus Christi, or Spirit of Christ, in Rochester, New York.

The community grew out of the Roman Catholic parish of Corpus Christi (Body of Christ). “Led by Father Jim Callan, a charismatic priest with a radical commitment to the poor and marginalized, the church was known for taking risks.” One of these risks was allowing Mary Ramerman, “the parish’s lay associate pastor,” a significant level of participation in the celebration of the liturgy — the Mass. Ramerman preached homilies and was even invited “to raise the chalice during the consecration,” a liturgical act which may only be performed by a priest.

When the diocese got wind of what was going on, Callan was moved to another parish and Ramerman was fired. Ramerman formed a new community to which a significant portion of the Corpus Christi congregation gravitated and which Callan himself soon joined. In 2001 Ramerman was ordained a priest and is now the pastoral administrator of Spiritus Christi; Callan is associate pastor. The community celebrates Mass in non-Catholic churches and has continued to develop the ministries and outreach programs that characterized Corpus Christi’s mission during Callan’s term as pastor. Spiritus Christi is an inclusive parish, with a “spirit of mutual trust and the commitment to creating a loving, supportive environment.”

Naturally there is no connection, official or unofficial, between Spiritus Christi and the diocese of Rochester. The reaction of the diocese to the goings-on at Corpus Christi reflects a sad truth of Christianity today: much of it appears to be a large arena in which countless conflicts — over who is right and who is wrong, who is moral and who is immoral, who knows what God wants and who doesn’t — are playing themselves out in an endless loop of YouTube clips, opinion articles, blog postings, and reader comments. Meanwhile, the fundamental teachings of the Rabbi whose brief life and cruel death inspired a movement that spread to every corner of the earth have been largely forgotten in the heat of a war that can never be won.

Spiritus Christi is a small corner of peace in that noisy arena, an alternative to the culture of Christian conflict.

Did Jesus fight? Of course he did. Did he criticize? Without question. In fact, he directed his anger and his scorn at the very behaviour that so characterizes religious life today. But the purpose of his ministry was not to condemn the thinking or the behaviour or the character of those with whom he disagreed; Jesus did not devote his energy to preserving a tradition of orthodoxy or promoting a cause in which his ego was deeply invested. His mission was much simpler but at the same time far more challenging; it was embodied in the new commandment he issued to his apostles: “Love one another as I have loved you.”

The great conflict in the Catholic Church is between the preservers of tradition — who happen to be “in power” — and the so-called progressives. I am certain that this conflict dominates the conversation in many other Christian denominations as well. Because they have not only been excluded from power but have also been subject to the decisions of those in authority — that women may not be priests, that homosexuality is “intrinsically disordered,” that the Vatican and only the Vatican will determine which translation of the Roman missal is valid — many Catholic progressives have adopted a kind of victim mentality. The more vocal and articulate of these people have become spokespersons for their cause. The Catholic blogosphere is rife with article after article, posting after posting, pointing out the hypocrisy of church leaders, the injustice of curial decisions and policies, and the right of this group or that group to be fully included in the life of the institutional Church.

I count myself among the progressives and take the progressive position in all the major issues that make up the greater conflict within the Church. I am often angered or disgusted by what I see as deliberate ignorance, self-righteousness, and mean-spiritedness in my local Catholic press, for example, and I sometimes feel the urge to write a rebuttal condemning the medieval mindset of the writer and the paper.

Yet I have grown weary of the constant sniping — however articulate, however witty, however justified — that is a staple of the progressive Catholic blogosphere. I know that the bloggers are fighting for recognition and full granting of our rights as gay Catholics or divorced Catholics or Catholic women, but I have come more and more to believe that if Jesus were in this world in the flesh today, he would not be engaged in any of these battles. He would be living the new commandment.

Which is exactly what the community of Spiritus Christi is doing. Mary Ramerman says that it has been “immensely freeing to not have to hang on to that mode of thinking that says, ‘We are Catholic, you are not Catholic.’” Once it became evident that the diocese was not going to welcome Spiritus Christ back into the fold, they “realized that they had a newfound freedom to create the church for which they had longed.” The church the community had dreamed of now includes “a mental health center; two rehabilitation houses for formerly incarcerated women and men; a safe home for men recovering from drug and alcohol addiction; an active prison ministry; and outreach centers in Borgne, Haiti, and Chiapas, Mexico. Construction is currently under way on their latest endeavor, a supportive housing apartment building with 37 units.”

Spiritus Christi has opted out of the conflict. Instead they have chosen to follow the new commandment. The community has a (married) woman priest, it performs gay marriages, and it allows lay persons to “take over all the liturgies” when the pastoral team is away, so there really isn’t any reason to fight with the establishment. “They don’t think much about Rome or the hierarchy of the diocese of Rochester anymore.” Which means they have energy to direct towards loving one another other and to loving and serving those in need, just as a certain Jewish prophet did two thousand years ago.

If we as progressive Christians spent as much time reflecting upon the life and teachings of Christ as we did on trying to change the institutional Church, an entity that is in many ways dying and is certainly not the Church we loved as naïve children, we might begin to consider the wisdom and the value of creating communities like Spiritus Christi, where action, in the spirit of the new commandment, rather than reaction, is the charism of the day.

Photo Credits

All photos courtesy Rev. Mary Ramerman of Spiritus Christi.

Rev. Mary Ramerman

Community Activism

Spiritus Christi Service

Opting out of Conflict to Follow the New Commandment is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

Westminster Abbey, a Benedictine monastery and Catholic seminary in Mission B.C., had been on mind for some months before I contacted the Guestmaster and made arrangements for a three-day retreat at the end of February. I am writing a novel that is partly set in a monastery—the protagonist is a young seminarian and, much later in the story, a Benedictine monk—so I wanted to get a feel for monastic life and for the setting of this abbey. What’s more, I was a seminarian there for a very brief period in 1964 and had not been back since; I was curious to see how the abbey had changed—and how it may have stayed the same. Finally, I simply felt the need to be in a peaceful place for a few days, without duties or responsibilities, to purge a negativity that had been steadily growing in my mind like a tumour. Despite these “expectations,” I actually had no idea what the experience would be like and wanted to be open to whatever form my retreat might assume.

The Benedictine order was established in honour of Saint Benedict of Nursia, who lived in the sixth century. The order follows the Rule of St. Benedict, a set of precepts governing monastic life laid down by Benedict toward the end of his life. Rule 53 states: “Let all guests who arrive be received as Christ, because He will say: ‘I was a stranger and you took Me in’ (Mt 25:35). And let due honor be shown to all, especially to those ‘of the household of the faith’ (Gal 6:10) and to wayfarers.” In my communication with the abbey’s Guestmaster (who, to my great astonishment, remembered me from nearly fifty years earlier) I learned that the maximum length of stay permitted by the abbey was three nights. I would thus be getting a glimpse of monastic life rather than a true feel for it, but I happily accepted the condition and booked my stay.

I arrived at the monastery on Wednesday afternoon, the last day of February, after a ninety-minute trip along unfamiliar roads in the ubiquitous rain of the Fraser Valley, miraculously turning at exactly all the correct intersections. The rain turned to snow just as I entered the abbey driveway and by the time I got to my room the beautiful and extensive monastery grounds that slope down from the guesthouse toward the Fraser River were covered in a blanket of white. Unfortunately the snow ultimately turned to a cold rain that lasted for the remainder of my visit.

The motto that governs the lives of Benedictines is ora et labora, work and pray. Thus the monks (of which there are about thirty, ranging in age from early twenties to early nineties) and the senior seminarians pray in the abbey church four times daily (in addition to hours of private prayer); there is also a sung Mass every morning at 6:30. On that Wednesday afternoon, I attended Vespers, the most elaborate, and to my heart and my ear, the most hauntingly exquisite of the prayers. The antiphonal chanting of the psalms fills the church with a kind of benignly masculine sound that is at once enchantingly medieval and thrillingly in the moment, a moment that is enriched by the excellent acoustics of this unusual and impressive building. For the rest of my visit I attended all the prayers, including Lauds at 5:05 AM; on my last day I even joined in the chanting, if somewhat tentatively and quietly.

The abbey’s guesthouse is busiest on weekends when large groups come for retreats; for the first twenty-four hours of my visit there was only one other guest and on the evening of the second day, four Anglicans arrived for a short retreat. Individual retreatants and small groups like the Anglicans take their noonday meal and their supper with the monks in the refectory, a large high-ceilinged room that used to be the abbey church. This was an experience I had not anticipated and which I found fascinating.
Rule 53 also states: “On no account shall anyone who is not so ordered associate or converse with guests. But if he should meet them or see them, let him greet them humbly, as we have said, ask their blessing and pass on, saying that he is not allowed to converse with a guest.” I do not believe that this part of the rule is strictly observed today, but there is still very little opportunity for protracted contact with any of the monks other than the Guestmaster and those who are charged with assisting in the guesthouse. Certainly the monastery building itself is off-limits to guests. Thus it was a privilege to be given the opportunity to be with the monks in a slightly less formal setting than public prayer and Mass.

In the short time since my retreat ended I have been wondering why I found eating with the monks to be perhaps the most interesting and memorable aspect of my visit. I suppose it is because observing them in this setting allows us to see them both as monks and as human beings just like those of us who live in the “dusty world.” Monastic meals do have their strictures, the rule of silence being what we of the secular world might consider the most demanding, but there is something about the act of eating that touchingly humanizes these men, reflecting their individuality and exploding the image of monk as pious cipher.

If I harboured any stereotypical preconceptions about monks, they were quickly swept away by the Guestmaster, a man whose wry humour, solicitousness, and knowledge of the world would make him a welcome neighbour. At breakfast one morning (these meals were not taken with the monks but in the dining room of the guesthouse), he was an active and interested participant in a conversation that ranged from the Stanley Cup riots to homosexuality and ephebophilia. The following day our breakfast companion was the celebrant of that morning’s Mass, a priest who happened to have been rector of the minor seminary when I was a student in 1964 (in fact, it was likely he who called my parents and suggested that I was not ready for seminary life and should be taken home) and is now approaching 85 years of age. As sharp as any knife in my mother’s kitchen, he charmed and entertained us throughout the entire meal and then graciously took his leave as he pushed the cart full of dirty dishes back to the kitchen.

In the company of these two men it was easy to forget that they have lived lives of chastity, poverty, and obedience, of prayer and work, in this small community for at least fifty years. Whatever sacrifice such a life once entailed, though, appears to have long since been transmuted into a sense of peace and joy that, while tempered indeed with traces of ego and with the daily irritations of life, radiates from them with a gentle luminosity rarely encountered in men of the secular world.

As for the many hours I spent alone in my cell (actually a simple but very nice room, with a large, private bathroom), they were almost entirely taken up, after an evening and a morning of “spiritual” reading, by an unexpected yet utterly satisfying journey into William Styron’s flawed but achingly beautiful and passionate novel, Sophie’s Choice. The discovery of this work and the lessons it offered to me as a writer were a gift that the quiet hours of this retreat allowed me to receive and to appreciate and that deepened my commitment to my own humble vocation, doubly treasured for the very lateness of its arrival.

A rewarding three days indeed, for which I am deeply grateful.

Photo Credits:

Westminster Abbey by new_sox
Backside by iBjorn
inside church #9595 by Nemo’s Great Uncle 

Abbey Retreat is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

Yesterday I got rid of my cell phone.

Fear and dread quickly followed.

An interesting emotional upheaval considering I had just come back a few days earlier from a seven day silent meditation retreat. Up on the mountain I dedicated myself to sitting, walking, mindfully eating and being all in a deep commitment to my Buddhist practice. For eight to ten hours a day I followed my breath into a profound awareness of the thoughts that arose. Cravings, aversions, stories from my past repeated themselves in a viral loop of unnerving revelations. I blessed the food I ate recognizing it was mere elements of earth, air, fire and water devoid of self just as the rocks, the trees, the sky and I were devoid of self as well. I sent loving kindness to everyone I could think of and felt the sensation of abiding tranquility permeate my cells. What started as a challenging week of inattention and frustration ended in an intense embrace with the lightness of being in this body without the heavy lure of wants and needs. For a brief and translucent time I was at peace.

In the quiet seclusion of the monastery I thought about the ways I could expand my meditation time at home. I began to look at my patterns and how I spent my days. It wasn’t hard to see my time on the internet was the big elephant in the room jumping up and down in a hot pink tutu. I saw how each morning started with feeding the cats, making tea, turning on the computer and then losing myself in the onslaught of emails, balancing my cheque book and paying bills, perusing Facebook postings and checking out that cool new YouTube video everyone seemed to be sharing. Before I knew it the crevice of time I had allotted to meditation had been squandered in one or more of Dante’s realms of hell.

Examining how I could best change my electronic ways I decided first of all not to turn on The Machine before I go to work. The second most obvious piece of the quagmire to relinquish was my cell phone. I have a Blackberry that has proven to be quite handy while sitting in airports or riding ferries and catching up on emails, yet our day-to-day relationship is a bit co-dependent. I turn it on and check it while sipping my morning tea even though the same emails are just a few feet away on my computer. I glance at it at least three times while riding the bus to and from work and I gaze upon its countenance on my lunch hour as well. What started as amiable rapport had deteriorated into a sad obsession.

Deciding to give up my handheld companion while basking in the glow of nibbana turned out to be quite different from the reality of pulling the plug once I returned home. I entered the stages of grief. I’d done the denial circuit for quite awhile before I went on retreat. Back in the city I moved on to bargaining. Perhaps I could find a way to keep the calls coming, just in case, and drop the internet. I looked into plans with other companies only to discover I would have to get a new phone. Not wanting to add to the mountain of dejected mobile devices littering the planet, that didn’t seem like a viable option. Why a new phone? I learned that my dear Blackberry was “locked”, meaning proprietary to my cell phone provider, and couldn’t be transferred to another company. And all this time I thought we had a special connection.

Depression began to set in. My cell provider wouldn’t let me drop the data plan and revert to just a calling plan. Anger pulled up a chair. Sitting on hold as the second customer service representative transferred me to the Loyalty Department (translation: she’s about to leave us, make her stay) I settled into acceptance. When the young woman came back on the line trying to convince me not to end my long standing relationship with her company I voiced my firm decision to cancel my mobile phone.

As I hung up from the call I checked in with my body. The buoyant ease I had been nurturing the last few days had dissolved into a pool of fear and anxiety. I closed my eyes and followed the feelings, searching out their hiding places and sitting down next to them. With each breath I was able to peel off the layers of illusion and deception that were telling me a cell phone was important, necessary, something I couldn’t live with or without. Slowly the lightness returned and with it the sense of centred emptiness that filled the recesses of my soul.

From a Buddhist prospective the origin of suffering is our attachment to the transient things in life. It’s not just the shiny objects beckoning to us from every store window, every billboard and every magazine, but it’s also desire, passion, the pursuit of wealth and prestige, the perfect job, the perfect mate, the perfect cell phone plan. It’s about craving and clinging to the temporary. And it’s all temporary.

Giving up my cell phone isn’t the end of the world, yet in some ways it could be the beginning. It opens up more space in my day to be in the moment. To experience the complex beauty of my breath, to offer gratitude for the clouds stirring in the sky, to give thanks for the smile of a child passing by on a school bus or to hold in reverence the precious moments looking into the eyes of a friend.

As Leonard Cohen so eloquently states, “There’s a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” The work is in finding the fracture in our lives that’s calling to be cracked open. That’s where presence begins and it only gets brighter from there.

Photo Credits

Sunrise with Tree – Flickr Creative Commons by h.koppdelaney

Conceptual images about time – Microsoft Office Download

Mantle Meditation Flickr Creative Commons by moriza

Lyrics from “Anthem” by Leonard Cohen.

To Call Or Not To Call is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

This time of year tends to be challenging for me. I would guess the same is true for many others out there. And what’s interesting to me is that although the level of activity with others is often ramped up, so, too, can the feelings of loneliness. Seems like a contradiction, doesn’t it? Maybe, and maybe not.

The frantic pace of the holidays, coupled with the darkness and unheeded calls to turn inward and reflect on our lives, make one ripe for loneliness.

Pema Chodron writes: “Usually we regard loneliness as an enemy. Heartache is not something we choose to invite in. It’s restless and pregnant and hot with the desire to escape and find something or someone to keep us company.”

How often I have felt that, and then done that, in so many ways. I bet you, too, have a fairly long list if you take a little time to reflect on it.

Yet there have been times where I have simply sat with it, breathed into that ghost inside me and watched as it inevitably changed. Not that it always went away completely, but there nearly always has been a softening of the energy when I have given it some space through breathing and meditation.

Given the increased focus on slowing down and paying attention while I’ve been with people in the past few weeks, I’m finding that there’s been less loneliness floating around these parts. Furthermore, when it comes, I’m letting go of identifying myself with it. Just like any other experience, loneliness doesn’t define who I am.

How about you? Do you experience loneliness this time of year?

Photo Credits

Microsoft Office Clip Art Collection

Loneliness During the Dark Days of Winter is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

When I’m in the yoga world, it’s not uncommon for someone to say, upon hearing about my Zen practice, “Oh, I’m terrible at meditation” or “It’s too hard for me.” Sometimes, I hear the same thing as well from newcomers on Sunday mornings down at the zen center.

However, as fellow Buddhist blogger Algernon says in a recent post, there isn’t really such a thing as a “bad meditator.”

We are difficult because even when we are drawn to meditation, when we feel some tug to sit down and wash off our minds by doing some very simple awareness practice, holding hands with our pulse, ahhh the difficulty arises: “I’m a terrible meditator. My attention goes everywhere. My thinking is out of control.”

Translation: I don’t waaaaaannnnaaaaa!!

Sometimes it feels like going to the dentist, and sometimes it feels like soaking in a hot tub. But that isn’t really the meditation – that’s coming from you and me.

I think there are a lot of stories about what meditation “should” look like that cause people trouble. Such as the view that your mind should always be quiet, or that you are supposed to force all thoughts into silence. In addition, a lot of folks have conjured up an image of the perfect location and environment to do meditation in and then, when such a place isn’t available, they decide they can’t do it. Furthermore, perhaps they believe the nonsense folks like Zen teacher Brad Warner espouse, suggesting that zazen only happens in certain postures, and can’t be “done in a chair.” (I agree with Brad, by the way, that meditation is an embodied practice, and that thinking you can do it in any old posture doesn’t fly. I just don’t get his anti-chair position, and in general, am an advocate for more flexibility around form.)

Beyond all of that, though, there’s the strong sense of compartmentalization that many of us do with our spiritual lives. Meditation practice is often viewed as something done in such-and-such-a-place, time, and manner.

Whereas I have meditated on buses, park benches, in the middle of the Occupy protests, in public restrooms, among other places. I also often chant while bicycling, and for two winters in a row did lovingkindness meditations walking in the skyway system in downtown St. Paul. Of course, I also practice in the places many consider “normal” – like on my meditation cushion at home, or in my zen center. But overall, I remain focused on breaking down walls and barriers – infusing practice into my everyday life, and everyday life into my practice.

I encourage you all to do the same.

Photo Credit

Meditation @ Flickr

The “Bad” Meditator is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

Over the past year, I have been collecting the blogs of people living “alternative” forms of career. Or, you might say, doing lives in a form different from the wage-an-hour, 9-5 setting. One thing I’ve noticed among nearly everyone writing these blogs is a passion for life that bleeds through their words. Even when they’re writing about something miserable, about some form of suffering, there’s still an energy present that I find myself attracted to. An underlying joy or ease, perhaps? I haven’t quite pinned it down, and don’t think “it” ever will be.

One of the blogs I follow is called “Zen Habits.” It’s author, Leo Babauta, is clearly influenced by Buddhism, although I don’t know whether he actually practices or not. This is what he says his writing is about:

Zen Habits is about finding simplicity in the daily chaos of our lives. It’s about clearing the clutter so we can focus on what’s important, create something amazing, find happiness.

Now, much can be said about what might be called the “simplicity movement.” I know Katie over at Kloncke once made some astute criticisms about how simplicity advocates tend to speak to middle and upper class folks, and often fail to comment on forms of systemic injustice that often stand in the way of poor and working class people benefiting. Another way to look at it is that it’s often an individualist or nuclear family centric approach.

So, with that said, I like Leo’s blog because while it does appeal to that middle class, consumerist crowd in need of “downsizing” their attachments to stuff and other clutter, it’s not limited to that. Some of the articles could easily be used by someone who is totally broke and trying to figure out how to financially support themselves in a more beneficial way. And some of the posts are simply redirecting our attention towards more wholesome aspects of life and living.

Anyway, I don’t want to just plug Leo’s blog here, but to bring up what he wrote in a recent post.

Gratitude solves all problems. I am grateful for having this friend, or stranger, in my life, and I’m grateful for the chance to even be here, and for the incredible life I have.

Sounds really simple, doesn’t it? Also might sound like nonsense to the practical mind. And it’s true, “problems” in the relative sense don’t get “solved” by simply being grateful. I’ve spent large chunks of time down at our Occupy Wall Street offshoot in Minneapolis this past week precisely because there are complicated social issues that need to be approached in a radically different way.

However, go back to that first sentence. “Gratitude solves all problems.” I think this is a perfect way to describe the tapping into the universal energy flowing through everything all the time. That “place” where it is all ok right now.

Gratitude breaks through suffering. I’ve felt that over and over in my life. Maybe you have as well. And for all of our ability to produce endlessly “profound” spiritual teachings as a species, it so often does come back to something simple that we can rely on. Trust in. While working to address all the complications standing before us.

Gratitude Solves All Problems is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

Some years after the experiences which created the story See The Light, NakSanSa Temple was destroyed by fire.

An inferno in 2005, which began in the pine forest surrounding the temple, was so intense that the bronze temple bell, which I had been privileged to sound, a national treasure which dated back to the 15th Century, was melted.

It wasn’t the first time NakSanSa had been destroyed.

The temple had previously been razed by fire in the 13th Century by the Mongolian hordes. From 1392, during the Joseon Dynasty, the temple was reconstructed. It was expanded by royal order in 1467, 1469, 1631 and 1643.

It was again burnt down in the 1950-53 Korean War.

Since the fire of 2005, NakSanSa Temple has again been rebuilt.

The consecutive painstaking rebuilding of the temple is a testament to the dedication of the Korean people and successive national and provincial governments.

No nails are used in the traditional wooden construction of Buddhist temples in South Korea.

The present-day temple museum displays a wooden violin and cello built from structural wood that survived the fire.

NakSanSa Temple is as perennial as Buddhism itself.

Photo Credits

All Images Courtesy Of Wikipedia

Built On Faith is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN

Gonging a giant bronze bell at 3 o’clock in the morning isn’t everybody’s idea of a must-do holiday experience, but if you are staying in a South Korean temple, it’s part of the job description.

Patience is also a required skill when taking tea with a Buddhist monk. There is far more involved than a spoon for each person and one for the pot.

It may not be everybody’s cup of tea, but for those who seek to be enlightened on the daily rituals of Buddhist monks and nuns, who strive for the harmony of Yin and Yang, a temple is the place to “Yang” out.

Temple stays in South Korea are experienced by thousands of tourists and students annually, eager to learn more about the history of Korean Buddhism, which spans more than 1600 years.

It is a fascinating window on religious life.

From early morning chanting to the dignified tea ceremony, the reverential approach to eating and the humble evening meal, a monk’s life is far more than robes and meditation.

In South Korea, religion is a living history.

There are around 800 monasteries, with histories dating back centuries, which combined represent a treasure trove of sweeping, tile-roofed temples, halls, shrines, classic oriental gardens, paintings, literature, music, myth, food and tea, all celebrating the life of Buddha.

The monk SeolUng wrote: “The voice of the waves and the wind bell . . . and then the smell of pine needle, joins together. There is a generous spirit of the Saint Buddha in NakSanSa.”

Standing at the clifftop UiSangDae Pavilion, looking out to sea as the first rays of light bled over the rocky coastline to illuminate the layered roofs of NakSanSa Temple on South Korea’s northeast coast, it was impossible to disagree.

On a nearby hill, the benevolent eyes of a 16m-high stone Buddha, the largest of its kind in the orient, stare pensively out to sea. The air was warm and resin-scented, the still pines and gardens the epitome of peace on the 5am sunrise walk down the mountainside from the temple to the pavilion.

A flock of ducks, black against the rising light, flew across the red bruise of the sunrise as the grey wisps of cloud on the horizon glowed golden, then blood red, as the sun rose over the Sea of Japan.

The sunrise was a fitting reward for the strict 9pm curfew of the night before, following a welcome to temple life by our host, the Buddhist nun BupGwang. Before bed there was a visit to the bell pavilion, set amid carefully tended temple gardens alive with the buzz of cicadas.

The pavilion houses the four instruments used to pay homage and regulate temple life. The Dharma drum, covered on opposite sides with the hide of a bull and a cow to symbolise the harmony of Yin and Yang, represents earth-bound beings.

The brightly coloured wooden fish represents water creatures and the cloud-shaped gong, airborne creatures. The massive bronze bell, rung 28 times every morning and 33 times in the evening, is said to sound like the voice of Buddha, with its deep-throated boom giving relief to tormented beings in hell.

A monk beat the drum and then visitors took turns at gonging the bell, its heavy reverberations setting eardrums humming as it vibrated the air around us.

Visitors could also ring the bell at 3am. Some took up the offer, while others slept until 5am, then woke for the sunrise walk. A stroll through the grounds before bed revealed a shrine where monks prayed before a golden Buddha.

Clouds of incense and candle smoke wafted in the humid air, blending with the monks’ monotonous chanting as they made their 108 prostrations to the divine one.

The next morning, while being instructed by the nun BupGwang in the basics of Zen meditation, it became even more painfully obvious that Buddhism is physically demanding.

After fifteen minutes of focused meditation sitting in an attempted lotus position that looked something like a snapped pretzel, the leg joints were creaking and the muscles aching. BupGwang smiled inscrutably as she admitted to meditating for 10 hours at a sitting.

NakSanSa was first built in 677, during the Silla Dynasty (57BC-AD935).

Buddhist clergy live a life of humble devotion, following a demanding and sometimes lonely discipline epitomized by the formalities of the meal ceremony. Greed is abhorrent – food is looked upon as merely the fuel to drive the body to support the discipline of faith.

The food ritual, Balwoo Gongyang, means eating only that which is required, wasting nothing, not even the water used to clean the bowls, or Balwoo.

A simple meal of rice, kimchi (pickled vegetable), a thin soup and seaweed, becomes a study in the appreciation of the fundamentals of life as each is served into three bowls, with a fourth bowl filled with a measure of water.

Sitting cross-legged and straight-backed, there is no talking, a piece of kimchi or radish is kept at the side of the rice bowl to use to wipe out the bowls at the end of the meal.

The water, which should remain clean throughout the meal, is used to clean the bowls, and then drunk. While the meal ceremony honours simple food, the Korean Da-do, or tea ceremony, is about enjoying life’s subtleties.

The aim is to taste the tea not with the mouth but with the mind. Tea is one of the six offerings to Buddha, along with incense, flowers, lanterns, fruit and rice. It is brewed and drunk three times, with the ritual designed to bring out five distinct flavours – the tongue first tastes bitterness, followed by astringence, sourness, saltiness and sweetness.

During the tea ceremony, the nun BupGwang relaxed from her duties to smile and laugh as the foreigners juggled cups, lids and teapot in an attempt to serve the brew just right. Dressed in grey robes and with shaven head, it was hard to ascertain her age.

On an assurance from the interpreter that “she is not a normal person, so it doesn’t matter”, I asked the question every woman dreads: Excuse me, but how old are you?

She said she would answer later, but never did.

A Gallery Of Beautiful Image By Vincent Ross

  Photo Credits

All photos © Vincent Ross. All Rights Reserved.

See The Light is a post from: LIFE AS A HUMAN