Kenny was my teacher in so many ways. He taught me about my own anger, my ego, my pride. There were times I genuinely wanted to kill him, but I kind of believed he was unkillable, since by all laws of physics he should already have been dead many times over. He forced me to work with the fire of my own anger, and in that Kenny was right: fire purifies. He taught me about forgiveness. Kenny did not hold a grudge against anyone, his own demons included. The times when I hated him for what he said or did, I had to confront my own monsters eye to eye, forgive them, and move on. (more…)
Archive for the ‘Dorje LIng’ Category
May all beings everywhere, with whom we are inseparably interconnected, be fulfilled, awakened, and free. May there be peace in this world and throughout the entire universe, and may we all together complete the spiritual journey.
Once upon a time I went for a ride on Cortes Island, with a sore knee and a rusty chain and a battered heart. I had no destination in mind as I chugged up and down, hill after hill, until finally my gears seized and the heavy old bike rolled to a stop. I leaned it up against a sign in the shape of a wheel and started to walk. An odd, warm wind was pulling me forward, playing gently through the fine hairs on my forearms. I heard the distant chime of windbells and kept following the dusty path, arriving finally at Dorje Ling Dharma Centre – an ersatz Tibetan fantasy of cedar and film set castoffs and rusted metal and sky. (more…)
I rode down to Dorje Ling to bring Kenny a newly knitted pair of fingerless mitts – marked by holes and bumpy stitches, highly imperfect, Dorje Ling style. He was glad to see me and I to see him. But he was, he is – KennyLa, the Babbling Buddha.
Dorje Ling was beyond glory with the sun breaking low above the snowy mountains, there are no words. And again I was so grateful, for all the challenges and gifts of Kenny and of this wild fantasy that i stepped into and made real. And I knew then, that I would not be going back to Dorje Ling. I accept, I release.
Can it be possible that appreciation makes it easier to let go?
Thank you, thank you and goodbye.
I am here, I am here, I am here. Committed.
To the wind and the rain and the darkness, the stillness and the silence and the boredom and the fear.
To learning. To rest. To service. To biking the hilly unpaved roads. To knitting mushroom-dyed wool and drinking hot chai by the woodstove. To writing. To me.
I have been paralyzed by indecision for some weeks now, tormented by waffling and doubt. The options are so many – I swear, with freedom comes madness! And I want to slap myself in the head, knowing every option is nothing but good. (more…)
And this is what that dang Universe has dumped on my plate: the sweetest little lakeside cottage, where I sit now typing by the woodstove. Spacious and bright, with a comfy bed at the top of the spiral staircase. The sky shines down on my bed through the huge skylight, sun and stars and swaying trees. Wooden decks – two of them! – to sit wrapped in a blanket, meditating with the frogs. An enormous red cat who I saw snatch a bird right out the air. A wireless connection. A Polish grandpa next door. A canoe. And an army of huge spiders in the bathtub and sink. (more…)
3,000 healing mantras, counted out on my brown wooden mala. It would have gone faster if I muttered my way through them, but when i chant them i feel the vibration through the top of my skull. But Geshe YongDong directed, for chanting, “say it 3 times, or 7 times, or 21 times – no more”. Why no more, I asked. He shook his head. “Oh no,” he said pursing his lips in serious mock-seriousness. Your voice will get tired.” And it would, so it has taken me two months to do. (more…)
Wendy is still here, a brisk British “karma yogi” who finished a stint at Hollyhock and then stayed in the cabin for two weeks in exchange for cleaning and chores. She leaves tomorrow, and Lisa Quinn and bf arrive from Seattle. Betty is here in the Royal Lama Suite, making the most of our mission statement – draped in a brightly striped blanket she meditates in the Hall for hours every day, explores the island, eats bowls of good food and gazes calmly at the sky.
Terry came and went, by bike, cresting a loop up the Sunshine Coast and down-Island to Victoria. We talked as ever and at great length, over halibut burgers in Squirrel Cove – of shoes and ships and sealing wax, and cabbages and kings. (more…)