The Facts

I was elbow deep in cookie dough in a cramped kitchen in a rental house in Vermont owned by Lily Munster from The Munsters. A photo of Fred Gwynne grinned down from a framed photo in full Herman Munster makeup when it came.

The Question.

"Mom, where did I come from?" my young son asked.

"Well," I said, wiping my be-floured hands on my jeans, let's talk about it." I swallowed hard. I had avoided any such topic with my elder daughter, and following the advice of her pediatrician, had purchased Our Bodies Our Selves and had left it lying on her bed when she was roughly eleven. The theory was that she would use it as a sort of reference book, and if she had any questions, we could talk. What I didn't know was that the book had changed some since my college days, and some of the information was completely over the head of an eleven-year-old, if not TOTALLY INAPPROPRIATE. Like the section on bestiality. But, at the time, I was distracted and cowardly. There had been no conversations with my own mother, whose explanation of approaching menstruation had started with, "You may find a little blood." I had been trapped in the car going to the orthodontist and was frozen into silence, anxiety filling the car like carbon monoxide. A little blood where?

I was determined to be frank and open, loose, loving and relaxed this time around. We would have a conversation. So, I launched into a loving tale of sperm meeting egg.

"Mom?"

"Just hear me out, sweetie," I said. "Then, you might want to ask questions."

"But, Mom - "

"Just a sec." I described the process of gestation, and finally the moment of birth itself, pointing joyfully to the area from which his rather large head had emerged.

I beamed at him tearfully. Then I noticed the expression on his face. It was one of complete and utter horror. He backed away, arms stretched before him in a don't-come-any-closer gesture.

"I DID NOT!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, you did."

"Mom! I MEANT did I come from Long Island like Katherine, or was I born here in Vermont?"

Oh.

The Post I Meant to Post Thanksgiving Morning

We'll be hitting the road in a few hours to spend Thanksgiving with my daughter and her husband and in-laws and dog in her new house on Long Island. We won't be going over any rivers in a horse-drawn sleigh, maybe through some suburban woods, but, mostly down the Taconic Parkway with Juan the Gardener at the wheel. We're bringing the pies.

When I was a child, Thanksgiving morning was a flurry of getting my two sisters and me bathed and stuffed into our matching red velvet dresses, white eyelet blouses, and black patent leather shoes with little white anklets, and woolen dress coats. We did go to Grandmother's house, although we were supposed to call her Grandmere (like the French) which became GRANDma (avec un accent grave) and eventually Grumma. Our cousins came from their farm in New Jersey, and it was for my Uncle Tigger that my heart beat its first rapid staccato. I remember sitting on his lap while he was telling a joke, snatching his handkerchief from his pocket and stuffing it into his martini. I was three and madly in love.

Grumma, a tiny, fierce woman with coiffed grey hair would preside from a red wing chair in the den while the grown-ups had drinks from a drinks cart that always held a glass of cherries and a tiny bowl of olives. We children had gingerale with one cherry each and sprawled on the rug with wooden blocks or marbles. At about age ten, I discovered the bookshelves downtairs in the playroom alongside my Uncle Tigger's red fire engine: original editions of Robin Hood, Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn and Treasure Island, my mother's Oz books, and Little Maid collections. While our parents told dirty jokes upstairs in French, we cousins pored over Arthur Rackham's illustrations. 

Eventually, we would be summoned to lunch, filing into the diningroom behind our Grandmother and her French poodle, Pepe, in an orderly group.  It was the era of children-should-be-seen-and-not-heard.  Good manners were paramount. Fits of giggles were not particularly tolerated, especially if they couldn't be explained, or if they appeared to be at the expense of one of the grownups. The conservative political talk of our parents and Grandmother swirled above our heads in a  boring dark cloud. Once, though, my younger sister told a joke she had heard in nursery school or on the Sandy Becker TV show. It was pretty garbled, something about a little boy and a turkey, and she only got part of it. The punchline was, "What, TURKEY?" It was nonsensical and unexpected and everyone laughed.

Oryoki, Oy!

Yesterday, during his morning talk, the Acharya mentioned that if you want to look at your previous lives (given one does indeed believe in re-incarnation) look at your body. So far pretty good. Everything, though creaky at times, works. After two weeks of morning Qi Gong, I find I am nearly able to fold into "Frog in Repose."

Then he said, "If you want to know about your future, look at your mind."

Uh oh.

One of the forms that is practiced during dathun is oryoki, a way to synchronize mind and body through an awareness of eating by following a strict order of precise movements. Oryoki is an opportunity to give and to receive, to serve and be served. There is a head server and a team; tasks are assigned in chalk on three blackboards with nearly as many arrows to designate movement as an NFL head coach's play book. Food is presented respectfully and received with boundless appreciation. The umdze (timekeeper) presides from the front of the room and orchestrates with the aid of a gong and timely smacks on a wooden gandi. It is a beautiful display, a soundless ballet, accompanied by voices chanting in harmony. Or can be.

I am assigned to Team B, position #1, which means entering the shrine room on cue with a heavy soup pot raised above my head, containing rice, soup, pasta, a veggie or meat stew, or scrambled eggs, etc., while positions #2 and #3 follow behind with their raised soup pots. (Also called bowls.) We pause at the shrine and excute a bow in unison, then I peel off, do an about face, walk three steps to the umdze, bow, place the bowl on the floor and extend my flat palm. The umdze places his bowl on my palm with two fingers and as I fill it he lets me know with a hand signal when he has received enough. Flat palm lifted means thank you, that's enough; a pinch of thumb and forefinger indicates a bit more, a closed pinch means no, thank you. Then I rise gracefully, lift the bowl above my head, bow again, and proceed to Quadrant 1. A server bows to each quadrant in each aisle, both before and after serving one bowl. Team A, meanwhile, serves other bowls; there is either a 2-bowl (breakfast and dinner) meal, or a 3-bowl meal at lunch.

Aisles are divided according to meat-eaters and non meat-eaters; there are quadrants in the vegetarian aisle for gluten-free people; vegans have their own quadrant. Occasionally, there might be 2 meat-eaters who are gluten-free at the end of the non-meat eater aisle. It can get dicey.

Servers deliver rolled washcloths on small plates for cleaning the small wooden tables upon which those eating have placed their oryoki sets; bring and remove condiments, return with seconds, run noiselessly to and from the kitchen, maneuver trolleys laden with food, pour water.

A blackboard, placed by the shrine room door for easy reference might read in part, like this:
A. washcloths
B. condiments
A. bowl 2
B. bowl 3
A. move condiments
B. seconds bowl 2
A. seconds bowl 3 - get water

Another blackboard gives helpful reminders:
washcloths - bow to first two members of a quadrant only
condiments - no bow, place on floor
keep offering bowl to higher being above eye level, don't look in bowl
offering bowl to lower beings is kept at waist height, avert eyes

If one is smart, one refers to the blackboards whenever one is not on the move; one also asks members of both Teams A & B for frequent reminders: Bow? Don't bow? Enter before the smack on the gandi or at the chanted word svasti?

At first, one is hyper-vigilant, but silent perfection is an aspiration that can never be achieved. The more one relaxes during dathun, the spa--c-ie-r one tends to get. The minute one carelessly thinks I got this, yeah yeah, bow, don't bow, no problem, disaster strikes.

For example, one forgets to bow, one drops the serving spoon on the floor, which necessitates an emergency hand-off of a clean serving spoon, one confuses which bowl holds gluten-free bread and has to be corrected; one mis-counts (having asked 7 times for clarification) the number of condiment bowls containing maple syup and has to race back to the kitchen for more; one goes to the kitchen for water, and misses one's turn serving seconds; or, sadly, when one is bowing to the umdze, who this unlucky day happens to be the Acharya himelf, one farts.

I'm fairly certain that in this server's next life, senmos and gyalgongs await, not to mention all manner of  malicious maras.

Oceans of Self-Absorption

For anyone who thinks sitting meditation for hundreds of hours a day for the benefit of all sentient beings is a vacation, I say: Just try it. Little irritations develop, shoulders muscles burn and throb as if they're being gripped by vultures, the spine screams. Loud popping sounds issue forth from the jaw. The knees crackle, the ankles cramp. Rebelling against it only makes it worse. In my quest for relief, I've more moves on a 2x3 foot zabuton than a contortionist.Whenever I relax into a pain-free second or two, a new spasm attacks my central nervous system like an electric volt from a stun gun. But, I get it now: it's just like life. There aren't any safe, cozy little corners to hunker down in; something edgy is always arising, and then it dissolves.

Sometimes, though, major irritations develop. I wasn't in any sort of a mood to hear the word fat voiced in my presence, even in jest. I simply mentioned that I seemed to have gained some weight over the first few days of the retreat, more to myself than anyone else who happened to be in the room.

"Yeah, you look kinda fat to me," Juan the Gardener said.

"What?"

"I'm kidding. It's how we play," he said.

Let me add that I had kindly offered to wash his oryoki cloths in the basement washing machine while he was busy being important and eating chocolate in a meeting with the other MIs.

"You're being aggressive," I said.

"Oh, now I don't get that at all. I mean I hear what you're saying, but I'm just not getting where you're coming from."Then he gave me his best bewildered look.

"Did you wash my cloths?" he asked. There are four oryoki cloths of varying sizes, in which the bowls and utensils are folded and tied in an efficient picnic-like bundle.

"YOU can go down and get the laundry," I hissed.

"But, I don't even know what dryer it's in, and I need my cloths."

"It's in the first dryer."

When he trundled off, I followed.

I met him at the dryer, and before he could open the door I snarled, "From now on you do your dathun and I'll do mine."

 I headed up the Tiger Trail into the woods to sulk and throw some imaginary kerosene on my resentment. I sat on a stump and listened to the clickity-clatter of dry leaves and discovered how soft and intricate certain mushroomy fungus was. I thought about my father and how much I missed him. He would be 97. Next, I realized it was close to tea time and I wondered if we'd be having scones with lemon curd again.

I saw Juan a little later during walking meditation. He looked rumpled and familiar and when our eyes met, we did something unexpected: we winked.

Bun

I've been keeping a secret (sort of) for a few weeks now. It's such HUGE NEWS, and now I can say it: I'M GOING TO BE A GRANDMOTHER!! My daughter Katherine, the one who NEVER comments on my blogs and who probably doesn't even follow me, who before she crosses the threshold of my house has to reach out and tuck my hair behind my ears, is having a baby in May!

Our phone conversation went like this:

"Hi, Mom."

"Hi! How are you?"

"Not bad. I'm cooking."

"Mmmhmm. (Yawning. Irma Rombauer, I'm not.)What are you cooking?"

"Oh, lemon mustard chicken, asparagus and roast potatoes."

"Yum, but, could you call back? It's the division finals and the Yankees are..."


"Mom!"

"All right, it's just if you're cooking..."


"Listen!  I want to tell you about dessert. It's kind of special. There's a BUN in the oven."

"A what? You're PREGNANT?"

"Yup."

"OH! OH! Are you sure? Are you all right? Is Ty all right?" (Ty, of course, is the DAD.) Is Quincy all right? (Quincy, of course, is the DOG.)

"Mom, calm down. I'm fine, Ty's fine, Quincy's fine, everything's fine. I saw the heartbeat today."

"The heartbeat! I'm so excited, I can't believe it, I can't believe I'm going to have my own baby!"

"Except, it's not your baby; it's mine."

"Wha-what I meant was, you're my baby and now you're having a baby."

But we both know what I meant.

I was pretty good for me about not telling anyone. I was allowed to tell Juan the Gardener, but then, I just had to tell Jane.

"I knew it!" she said, as I knew she would.

We had all had dinner together at Jane's a week or so before. Our families have known each other all of our children's lives.

"There was something different about her," Jane mused, thinking back.

"Yeah, I know."

"She seemed so down to earth or something."

"She did."

"And settled, sort of."

"Exactly."

"So, have you got your name all picked out?"

"My name? You mean some sort of grandmother name?"

"Yes, like 'Granny' or something."

"Hmm, I don't know, but it will have to be something cool, nothing old sounding. I'm gonna be one helluva hip Granny."

"Well, get back to me on that, will you?" Jane teased.  "I know I'm going to have to listen to every single detail of this pregnancy anyway."

"Every single detail," I interrupted.

 "It's going to be a long 9 months. Tell darling Katherine I'm so thrilled. So much love to you! My God, where did all that time go?"

There was a pause, like right before tears. I remembered back 31 years ago to a knock on my door and a radiant young woman, giddy-pregnant like me, grinning and holding out a platter of chocolate chip cookies, which we finished together. 31 years ago.

And now my daughter, who towers over me, who is strong and beautiful and capable and competent, (and sometimes, frankly, pretty intimidating) who ignited a fiercesome, unquenchable love from the instant I knew she was going to be, is carrying my grandchild. MY grandchild.

Katherine's first sentence was SELF DO DAT, and she had a glare that could curl your toes; she also used to leave teeth marks on the butter in the refrigerator.

Now it's her turn and I get to be there.

101

"I'm going home," I said to Juan the Gardener before dinner on the evening of the first day of dathun.


"Why?"

"Because everybody's mean."


"But, everyone is silent."

"I can just tell."

"You're right; they've been laughing at you."

"Now, you're mean!"

"Yeah, but, it's so much fun to torture you!"

Earlier that morning, spine and shoulders afire, I had been caught pawing through the medicine box in the mud room, looking for aspirin or tylenol, but secretly hoping for something stronger, like novacaine or a syringe of steroids.

"Are you all right?" one of the MIs (meditation instructors) asked me.

Indicating my neck and shoulders, I mimed an agony akin to childbirth.

"Try not to take too much," he cautioned. Later he suggested that I might want to gently explore the pain with my mind, to see if I might discover anything about it.

What I discovered was neither fancy nor complicated, just simple, ordinary Resistance 101.


I'll admit, at first I found it auspicious that my cushion in the shrine room is in the second row from the back - close to the door - in case I need to bolt. Unfortuneately, seated right behind me, except when he is at the front of the room generously offering venerable teachings, is the senior teacher.

There's no actual rule saying I can't bolt, and bolting is my default escapist strategem, has been for years. It's been a long time since I've jumped into the car and spun recklessly out of the driveway to avoid confrontation, or powerful feelings. Eventually, I learned from other teachers in my life that my feelings always hitch a ride, no matter where I might think I'm going. Speeding down the road leaving a maelstrom of dusty gravel in my wake used to only fuel the aggression, and was often accompanied by some sort of reactive thought line: Oh, yeah? I'll show him/her/them!

Or a speeding ticket.

What I really wanted was for someone to throw me a velvet lasso, reel me in and mend my broken heart. It's hard to lasso a moving target, especially one spitting small rocks and plumes of exhaust.

After dinner, the oryoki head server stopped me in the hallway, and asked if I was doing okay. He held out his hand and introduced himself.

"Hi, I'm Paul," he said.

His hand was warm.

Taking My Seat (Again)

Well, I'm back on retreat - two weeks of a dathun, or month-long meditation retreat, back to room 229, room wiz flies, but only two. Room wiz dead outlet where table lamp ought to be, right down the hall from room wiz baby. (A first.)  I was irresponsible about following through with registration, so at first it looked like I would be wizzout dathun, but it worked out as things often do, thanks to a little help from Juan the Gardener and friends. (Thank you, especially, Ella.) Tune, who had just sat the first two weeks, loaned me her oryoki set, comprised of three beautiful ceramic bowls,a pair of red lacquer chopsticks, a spoon and setsu (little spatula). We met in front of the hoagie place in Lyndonville. She looked radiant.

"Did you have a good time?" I asked.

"Did you ever do part of a dathun before?" she smiled.

"Yes," I said, remembering the two weeks I had done last winter. "I guess asking if you had a good time is sort of ridiculous."

"Dathun is everything," she said. "Everything."

I had been considering one of the benefits of dathun to be an opportunity to slim down a bit. Meals are delicious, vegetarian in my case, with rice, fruit, soups and salads. Three times a day. Eaten with chopsticks while chanting, and turning the tiny pages of the paper chant booklet as big as my thumb, if one's memory tends to falter. It is a beautiful ceremony, but requires precision and concentration; attention to detail. Spacing out does not work. Wondering if I left my shampoo in the shower is not helpful. There's no pint of Ben & Jerry's waiting in the freezer.

"Someone told me you lose about three pounds a week during dathun," I had announced with some glee in the kitchen at home.

"There's no goal in dathun," someone at home had corrected. The idea is to meditate fully and open-heartedly. Save the lose weight idea for the fat farm."

"The fat farm?" I asked.

"In your case," the person at home continued, "You wouldn't get into a fat farm - you'd have to gain some weight to qualify."

Maybe, but the pants feel tight. And the butt isn't shrinking.

So, I'm here to lean into meditation, and oryoki and everything that is certain to arise. Wish me luck.