Alana's Dharma Blog

Dear Reader, I am republishing  putting this blog, which originally ‘aired’ back in Nov 2018, to put it into chronological sequence. I hope the redux, in its original context, provides additional insight.

---

 I was thinking about the upcoming Kathina ceremony, an important holiday in the Buddhist tradition, and decided I really wanted to make an offering to the temple – to the Buddha, Dharma and Sangha – that means something special to me. It’s hard to explain, but I felt like money alone simply wouldn’t do. Sometimes, when I give money it feels like donating food when I am full; I wanted this gift to feel like donating when I’m still a little hungry.  I wanted it to be a bit of a sacrifice, a bit of a stretch, I wanted to feel like I was really giving something of personal value. 

A few years ago, my husband bought me the purse of my dreams, a cute but classic bag from Goyard. The truth is, I never really used it a lot, it seemed so precious I feared damaging it. Plus, my style had changed and it really wasn’t something that felt like it fit. Still, it sat in my closet, a ‘just-in-case’ item with too much sentimental value to part with –the perfect offering. I called the consignment store and told them I had something to sell, the proceeds of which I plan to donate to the temple.  

The more I thought about it, the more items I decided I wanted to part ways with: A Burberry skirt, Chanel shoes, an Etro jacket, LV coat, that adorable Chloe belt with a pixie on it… By the time I had really gone through my closet I had a pile of 50 items on the floor ready to sell and then donate the proceeds to the temple.  

Now, lets be clear, this is not the blog where I tell you I have become and ascetic; rest assured, there are still a number of lovely Louis Vuitton bags living in my closet. And yet, as I looked at each item I own, my mind went through an exercise of weighing its use, value and meaning to me now versus the value of using that object to benefit the dharma, to make merit and to grow my own practice. Time will tell how this act, how the thoughts it stirred-up, take shape. But, in the next blog, I simply want to share the contemplation that occurred to me as I laid all my items on the floor and dedicated the merit of the offering before the consignment store came to haul everything away…till next week…

Dear Reader, the next few blogs are reduxes — blogs which originally ‘aired’ back in fall 2018 which I am  put it into chronological sequence. I hope these reduxes, in their original context, provide additional insight.

---

I was recently in Boston and took a guided tour of the Black Heritage Trail, a path that links more than 15 pre-Civil War sites important in African-American history; the stories of American abolitionists (folks who fought for the elimination of slavery) were a central theme of this tour.

I was totally captivated as the tour guide began sharing the story of a husband and wife — Ellen and William Craft — who through cunning, disguise and luck were able to escape slavery and flee to freedom in Boston. The story however was just as captivating to folks back in the 1800s, when press got wind of the Craft’s amazing escape, they started printing it in newspapers. When their old slave master, in Georgia, got a hold of a paper with their story in it, he decide to send slave hunters to Boston to capture his famous slaves and return them to him. And so we, as a tour group, stood at site of the famous showdown between William Craft and a group of abolitionists versus the slave hunters…( you will need to go to Wikipedia for the rest of the Craft’s tale, I have my own to tell here).

It got me thinking…the slave owner clearly thought the Crafts belonged to him, that they were his property. Obviously though, with my modern sensibilities, that seems crazy – you can’t own another person. The Crafts also thought their life belonged to them, but, did their circumstances really bear that out? These are folks who were born into slavery, who spent most of their life forced to do the will of others. Then, after a brief time of freedom, they again found themselves forced to fight ( and ultimately flee). Can I really say that people whose every action is dictated by someone or something else are free? Do they ‘belong’ to themselves?

The tour went on and my thoughts did too, till about 2 weeks later. I had wanted a new phone, something durable with a long battery life, and after weeks of research decided on just the phone; I dragged Eric to the AT&T store to both buy the new device and to switch carriers (Verizon, my old carrier, did not stock the phone).  The phone worked fine when we walked out of the store at 9 PM. The next morning though we had no service. Fuck Fuck Fuck! I was in a panic. I had made a huge change, spent a bunch of money, and now I had a phone that didn’t get reception in my house. My stress level was through the roof, so much for controlling my phone…all that research, a provider switch, and here I was with a piece of crap that didn’t actually make calls in my house. Fortunately, an email tipped me off to the problem, I had put a wrong number on the application form. It was, after all that stress, a matter of a short call to AT&T to get the line up and running. Whew.

I took one brief sigh of relief before I realized I was running late for my workout. I ran out the door, again stressed and toughed it through a killer boot camp class. Without even time to shower, I had to run again…I had an appointment to get my car serviced. It was off to the mechanic.

It was already noon, before I was in a loaner car, on the way home. Suddenly it dawned on me: I have spent almost every minute since I woke, plus a ton of stress, in service of my belongings. First I stressed about, then serviced the new phone. Then I sweated it our while I serviced my body. Then I scurried along to bring the car in for service. When I got home, the first thing on my list: laundry in service of my clothes.

I think I own these objects, I control them, I use them. But, like the Crafts, my life is a continual reaction to these things. Am I free? Do they belong to me? Because, it really is starting to seem like I am a slave to my objects.

“Fine”, I think to myself, “I spend time, energy, care for these belongings, that is a price I am willing to pay, for something reliable. For something consistent, for something I can count on”. But hold on a moment there: Are these objects really being consistent, reliable? The phone needed attention because it wasn’t working. The body needed a workout because at my age, its 2 weeks of sedentary living to flabby. The car needed a service because without oil it just doesn’t run. My day was, as it was, precisely because all these objects fail. They decay, they break, they are –yup, you got it—subject to impermanence.

Plus, if I am really being honest with myself, the care I put into these objects the concern, the jaw-breaking stress, is not just for the objects and their obvious functions, it is just as much (maybe more) for the object’s secret function – what I believe they do to care for and feed myself.  The phone is not just a phone after all, it is a safety blanket that bestows me with knowledge, keeps me from getting lost, from being alone, it is my invincibility shield in a lonely dangerous and confusing world; right up until my GPS fails, like it did the other day, and I end up in the ghetto.  The car is a status symbol, showing my wealth and my sensible decision making (it’s a nice subtle BMW X1, not a Porsche after all); right up till my brother Jew shames be for driving a BMW, a company that supported the Nazis.  The fit, shapely body proves I am in control, of myself and of my life; right up till too much green coffee extract has me peeing myself.

At the heart of it, what I want most deeply, what I delude myself into thinking I am special enough to achieve one day —  if I just push, work, act good, upright, moral, and muscle hard enough, — is a little garden-like world where everything is perfectly manicured, in bloom, beautiful and fragrant and just to my liking, always. In my mind my objects are my spades and hoes, tools to help me build my little garden.

But, any of you guys who have gardened before know, gardens take a ton of work, and there is always something dying, rotting, stinking, it is never the imaginary refuge I think, I hope, to build.

Back during the times of slavery in this country, slave holders used to say that “slaves are content with their servitude”. So what about me, am I content? Do I want freedom or will I strengthen the chains of my bondage with lies about my stuff, myself and this world? I for one am vigilantly taking note of all the times, ways, I’m a slave to my objects. I am watching my servitude, seeing how many hours of each day it consumes. Here is to hoping this path winds its way to freedom ASAP.

 

My friend was antsy to travel, but after asking everyone in our social circle, she couldn’t find anyone who would agree to be her travel partner. Finally, she asked me. She expressed her longing to see the world, and her disappointment that since her divorce, she had no one to join her.  She told me of her deep desire to spend time with me, to feel connected. She was so earnest, so desperate — I didn’t want to go, I worried that our relationship might come under strain (it has been strained in the past), I worried we would fight and someone could get hurt, but, against my better judgment, I ultimately agreed. I wanted to make my friend happy, I wanted her to feel satisfied. I wanted to be the hero –the good friend– that made my friend’s wishes come true.

I carefully planned out the trip. I planned activities around her interests, I planned food around her vegan diet, I ran the whole thing by her before any arrangements were finalized, she said she was happy, excited, at least until the trip actually arrived. Then, the unhappiness set-in. She wanted more –more food options, more activities, more time with me and, most of all, she wanted me to enjoy the same things she enjoyed, even though I just didn’t.  I had planned all this to satisfy her, but she was still hungry. I felt like a failure. A disappointment. And when the scolding and fighting got fierce, I felt like the anti-hero, who had stumbled (eyes wide open mind you) into a situation where everyone was getting burnt.

But, as the trip wore on, I started to notice  more and more ways my friend wanted more. She ate and ate, but even after desert, she still wanted more. She would run us ragged all day, but still wanted to hit a club at night, even as she fell asleep in the Uber on the way. She stayed at every museum till closing time and complained when the staff kicked us out. She tried to find new hiking trails when paths ended, thinking there were still more trees in the park to explore.

For years, my relationship with this friend was strained because we got into the same pattern again and again –I wanted to prove I was a good friend by making her happy. She was generally unsatisfied with my efforts, or her satisfaction was fleeting, and she wanted more. I felt exhausted. Like a failure. But instead of just walk away, I tried to prove my worth by scheming a new plan to make her happy. All the while both of us chaffed, and fought as this pattern played out.  Suddenly it dawned on me that my friend’s insatiability was it’s own pattern, that it didn’t necessarily have to do with me (not saying at times I didn’t contribute, just that I was not the ultimate cause).

A T-shirt I had seen years ago popped into my head: It was the image of a little hummingbird  with a thought bubble that read, “Things will be different when I learn to breathe fire”.  Eric and I joked that that little hummingbird was my ‘totem animal’, that it captured my personality to a T. I am always striving, always trying to force the world to my will. I want to fix things –my friend’s unhappiness, the filth of NY, the exploitation of animals for food, the aging of my body, my failure to be a ‘good’ alana all the time, people’s rudeness and carelessness, injustice in this world — and with just a little more effort, time, a new hack or skill, somehow I am going to make it different. That is me, a special little hummingbird just practicing and trying and waiting for the day I can breathe fire, change all the things I hate in this world.

Everything in this world that happens, happens in accord with the rules of the world. Everything has a cause. But I want things to follow my rules, not their causes. I want ‘fixes’ without understanding causes, without without understanding the nature /rules of the world upon which all causes are based (impermanence, no self, suffering).  I want to make a friend satisfied, when the cause of her dissatisfaction lies in her. When dissatisfaction is a tenant of this world’s suffering. I want to fix it to prove myself, to be a true friend, to be the hero, to be the master of this world, and in the process, I suffer –I plan, I scheme, I try, I work, I get angry, I feel hurt — I hurt others (that I care about deeply, like my friend), and I create new cycles of debt and consequence as I play out the drama of ‘Alana The Great Fixer’.  But are hummingbirds ever going to learn to breathe fire? The shirt is funny because everyone knows its impossible. Why on earth do I think I have a better shot at success than that little hummingbird?

 

 

 

 

 

 

A note on timing: The next few blogs are from contemplations that took place during the 2018 Vassa Period. In other words, they are interspersed in time with the ‘fact finding’ activities posted in the previous blog section. In a few, you can clearly see the influence of my ongoing activities exploring impermanence, control and my sense of specialness.

---

Yesterday a friend told me that a mutual acquaintance of ours, Jill, had at long last found a job after looking for many months. The job was in China and my friend pointed out that, in the end, Jill had to leave the country to find a new job because her reputation here was so tarnished. I thought to myself, “duh, Jill should have known better.” I mean really, Jill was caught doing lines of cocaine in the work bathroom, of course her reputation was ruined.

This morning, I was walking to work and I passed a homeless woman on the street, belligerently asking for money. I thought I’m not giving to this woman –she is belligerent. Besides, whatever she did to get out here, she should have known better.

This idea, of ‘should have known better’, it is the finest jewel in my crown of special. The reason I am not Jill (with her drug problem), or homeless, or that rape victim on NPR (getting into a car with a strange drug dealer) is that I know better. I make better life decisions… But do I?

I thought of Ongalimala again —  killing 999 people, I mean shouldn’t he have known better? And can I really say I know better than him? A guy who had the karma to actually encounter the Buddha and become enlightened?

• Did I know better when I agreed to take a 5-day trip with my friend , with whom I regularly struggle to spend a single afternoon with before a fight ensues? Sort of. I could have deduced that based on her personality, and mine, the trip would cause us both suffering. But I wanted to satisfy her wish to travel and spend time together. In truth, I had a wrong view, at the time I planned the trip, I didn’t yet understand. It was only after the trip, that began to contemplate on my own deep seeded need to prove that I am a ‘good friend’ by satisfying my friend’s desires. On the trip, I saw evidence of just how hard it is to make my friend happy, how insatiable she is –over and over she wanted more time at the museum, more restaurant choices, more tours, more, more, more. That trait, the need for more, lives in her, it is not something I can change. It is not something I can fix because it is not broken. By making my own goodness (in my mind) contingent on ‘fixing’ my friend, by making her satisfied, I set myself up for failure. I went on the trip to be the ‘hero’, to prove the identity of good friend, and ended up feeling like a both a victim to my friend’s anger, and a villain who snapped at her in return.  So did I know better? Sorta, but I had my reasons for going anyway.

• Did I know better when I was in college and I came mighty close to crossing the line of cheating? Close, but not quite. Sort of. I could have understood I live in a society and I am subject to its norms on relationships and cheating. But in truth, I really didn’t understand that morality, right and wrong, wasn’t governed by me — by the rules I imagined and the lines I thought were appropriate. Back then, my view was different, before practice helped me to internalize and consider issues from multiple perspectives, I never stopped to question my own perspective; I assumed it was right by default.  How could I have understood that my arbitrary line, of what is good behavior versus bad behavior in a relationship, wasn’t the governing force of whether I caused suffering/harm to others or myself?

• Did I know better when I used use-and-dump all those friends and lovers who in my mind I was just having a good time with? People to hang with, go out with, sleep with, but not really commit to in a meaningful way. Sort of — I could have thought about the golden rule, or put myself in their shoes. But in truth, back then I really didn’t understand everyone didn’t view relationships the way I did. How could I have known I would hurt these people when my only rubric for something pain-worthy was myself, and the short flings didn’t bother me at all.

•  Did I know better when I moved to NY, when I up-ended a life I enjoyed in SF for a place that ultimately left me miserable? Sort of. Before I moved to NY, on a visit, I noticed the noise, the meanness, the  filth, I could have guessed it would be a very difficult place for me to live and be happy.  But I thought I could be the master of my world — some how make arrangements to build my own little bubble in Manhattan where I was comfortable and safe. I thought I could bring my chill-easy -going- Cali girl attitude with me where ever I went, that I somehow possessed a capacity for deep inner peace that lived in me always. The irony is, as a long-time practioner,  I already understood ‘wrong views’ , I could have more carefully examined my beliefs before I left. I could have seen that I don’t control either the world, or even my ‘inner life’. That I am not master of any universe. It may have changed things. But really, I believed the power to change my environment and my feelings was in me.. So how could I have really known I wasn’t going to be OK in NY?

What is more, is this problem isn’t even isolated to me. Its pretty universal, After all, everything that has a good side has a bad side. Unintended consequences arise (always) because we don’t know all the info/ the full costs of something.   If I zoom out from my own life a bit, I can find so many examples: Uber has ruined driving in SF with traffic and aggression. But back when it started it seemed to solve a huge transport problem in the city. The community embraced it because we didn’t know better, we didn’t see how it would hurt the city. Air B and B is the same, with its convenience but also driving up rents. Legal guns, to protect white folks for Black Panthers and now everyone is a potential shooting victim. Plastic bags and straws and slash and burn agriculture…there are always unforeseen consequences.

So, back to me here… A friend, Ruby, came over, with an eye infection, talking about how she refused to get glasses and/or change to daily wear lenses. She said she had her routine and wasn’t going to change it, even as she suffered the pain and risk of further eye damage from an infection. I chastised her. I told her all contact wearers need glasses for just such an occasion, and that the perils of extended wear lenses are real. I told her the ease of dailies (1 day contact lenses). In my mind I’m thinking, I know better, my eyes are safe. But here is the thing, I just changed to daily wear 1 year ago. After an ophthalmologist scared me away from daily wear. After eye allergies had me so uncomfortable/vision so fuzzy, that I worried about my eyes and how frail they really can be. What is more, I used to not even have glasses. Again, it was an infection that got me to get a modern pair. It was my own experience having to run around blind without lenses. I am so critical of Ruby. I think I am so much better, safer, but literally 1 year ago I was more like her than like today’s me now.

A long time ago, Mae Yo answered a Q and A (its not one that ever managed to get published). It talked about someone who did something they regret as a teenager, about the guilt they feel. Mae Yo pointed out that, at the time, with the info they had, they did their best, made the best decision they could. That their adult self knows better, would do it differently now is sort of beyond the pale. This has been a comment that has stayed with me for years. Lately I see all the times I didn’t know better and now I do. Each time, I had my reasons, and they all basically boil down to not a taking a broad enough perspective, to thinking the world was going to revolve around me, my beliefs and biddings. But this is not how the world works, and my blindness to that fact leaves me exposed to the consequences of every fumbled act. If Jill should have known better, than Alana should too. Or maybe, a better framing is that as long as we act in blindness there really is no way to ‘know better’. I am not special, I just fumble in different ways, at different times, and the consequences bear fruit in different ways at different times.