Alana's Dharma Blog

It has been over 3 years since I began this blog and, before we move to the next ‘chapter’, I want to reflect from the present day perspective a bit about some of what I have learned.  The blog idea originally came from Neecha, but back when she suggested it –over 7 years ago — I felt like I was not ready to share my practice with the world, frankly I felt like doing so would make me a fraud: Who was I anyway? Not some great practitioner I assure you, just an every day gal with an everyday life. No one blog-worthy and that was that. Until…

Until that fateful mini-retreat, and Dharma Meltdown 2.o , when a little dirt on my beige pants had me sobbing in tears because I was so sure it was ‘proof’ of my impurity — ie. bad Buddhistiness. A little baby shake from Neecha, some contemplation on my meltdown and presto: My meltdown problem was solved PLUS I was finally ready to write this blog. When I was ready, I was ready because I decided that I may have held a wrong view — the view that my idea of what a good Buddhist actually is may not be the whole picture (a wrong view  strengthened through my interpretation of particular rupa, like perfectly white robes). There could be other stuff (stuff suggested in forms and behaviors that comprised my practice, like keeping a notebook) that made me a ‘good Buddhist’ or at least blog-worthy practitioner. And so, a blogger was born and, frankly I am glad she was because there has been a great deal of advantage that I have gotten from the practice of keeping the blog: Forced consistency in my practice, the chance to review old stories and to strengthen my understanding of the truths I uncovered, the ability to practice thinking analytically about my wrong views.

Recently though, I have come to see there is a even deeper wrong view that underlies this whole endeavor…I have been contemplating self and self belonging with renewed vigor in the last few months and after having my nails done I looked down at them and was surprised to see the paint chipping off fairly quickly. I thought to myself, “I have been being so careful, how are these things chipping so soon?” Then it hit me like a ton of bricks, the nature of nail polish is to chip, left alone long enough that is the way it decays; at most I am a factor in helping it stick around longer or chip faster, but I was never the cause. It is in the nature of white (or beige) cloth to become dirty — how in the fuck did I ever think that this was about ME? That it proved something absolutely in ME? That I should be able to  conquered this aspect of impermanence and not doing so is a personal failure (talk about fuel for eternal becoming). Woohoo Egooo… 

Enter Ego: I run around this world ‘interpreting’ signs in rupa, reading tea leaves, looking for meaning and every sign, every leaf, every micron of meaning always points back to me. But a tea leaf is just a leaf: It is made up of 4 elements and it (like everything else in this world) is subject to the three common characteristic, the only meaning in it is the meaning I imagine to be there. And the problem with my imagination is it has a singular agenda — creating and sustaining ME.

Beginning this blog sprung from my usual ‘epic’ struggle between being A (some version of good) and being B(some version of bad), but either way, I believed MYSELF to BE a SOMETHING. A part of me felt like this blog would prove/make real the idea I had of alternate good Buddhist, one who kept notes and diligently practiced, even if I couldn’t keep white clean.

Enter Truth: The good news My Friends is that Rupa doesn’t actually lie; instead of using it to tell falsehoods and build the self we can use it to  shed light on truth.  Just looking back over my blog is quite fine evidence that the great ME has changed a hell of a lot. You see, originally I believed I could use this blog to create some orderly narrative:  A series of stories, written post-facto, that showed my progress as it occurred. Sure, there was going to be change (cataloging it was sorta the point), but it was going to be controlled, hedged, turned on and off by MY WILL so that at any given moment I could ‘drop into’ my old self and tell it like it was. But here My Friends is where I admit the lie —  Today’s Alana can never speak with the voice of yesterday’s Alana. I know because I find myself regularly looking through my past notes and trying to reconcile exactly what I will blog when I just can’t un-see the things I have seen since the old story. I can’t really find or feel the meaning I know I once gave something, it has becoming too jumbled with new scenes and new meaning and new knowledge and new beliefs that have arisen in the interim.  Yesterday Alana and Today Alana are not the same, so where exactly is this ME anyway? And while there has clearly been a progression of this path, I sure as hell can’t swear by the meaning I read into each story, better yet the whole story arc.

And yet, I have every intention of continuing to forged ahead, to practice and to blog as I am able. But it is not to prove I am a Good Buddhist. It is not to become a good Buddhist. It is not to become anything at all, rather it is to un-become. To revisit each story as an opportunity to pick at the truth, to expose the wrong view, to feed my imagination the information it needs to forged ahead with a new agenda — unraveling and undermining ME.

I dedicate this blog, my practice, and all the merit  I have created in past and present life to entering The Stream as quickly as possible: Now, this week, this  month, this year, at the most in this life. To having the wisdom to uproot my wrong views, the parami to become enlightened, the energy to keep-on-keeping-on and the removal of any obstacles that might stand in my way. If I am born at all I ask to be born into circumstances of Dharma with true teachers, Kalianametra and on the path. May all the causes, conditions and factors that need to arise in order for me to become enlightened, arise and result in my enlightenment pronto!

Before we set sail to New York, Eric and I decided to go on a 3 week holiday to Europe. I planned every last detail, booked us in the nicest hotels, chose upgraded flight seats, researched the best activities and routs. With so much prepping, preparing and thoughtful packed I couldn’t imagine anything going wrong. But, its travel –its life–so of course, plenty did go wrong. Some stuff was just inconvenience, some funny missteps or misunderstandings. But there were a couple of incidents that made me so angry, so indignant, because the were simply NOT FAIR:

• Verizon — I had gone to Verizon and set-up an international phone plan before I left. But when we got to our first stop and I tried to use my phone, I realized that, contrary to what I was told at the Verizon store, my plan had not been set-up. I tried to get help online, but was unable. Ultimately I ended up having to call customer service, and pay international calling rates, to speak to a representative that could get my plan up and running. I was livid — it wasn’t my fault, and yet I had to pay just to fix a sales rep’s mistake. NOT FAIR!

•  Hotel  Booking — I had booked a room at a nice hotel in Malta and confirmed that the booking was all arranged and in good order before we left the US. I arrived at the hotel and they told me they had canceled my booking. No one new exactly why, however it happened. With a conference in town, the rates for their last remaining rooms had gone-up by nearly 2X. My choices were to book a more expensive room or leave and hope that, despite the conference, I could find another hotel room somewhere else. I felt extorted, I had prepared, done everything right, and yet here I was, and it was NOT FAIR!

• ‘Premium’ Airline Seats — For my flight home I booked ‘premium bulkhead seats’ with extra legroom in front. But, the airline had neglected to mention that the bulkhead area, though not technically an aisle, was the easiest way for the majority of passengers to go to and from the bathroom. As soon as I sat down, the flight attendants began to apologize. I soon learned why — every 2 minutes someone was stepping on my feet trying to get to the bathroom. There was an announcement that passengers should not use the bulkheads as an aisle. The flight attendants even tried blocking-off the ‘premium seats’ with luggage. But ultimately there was no way to stop the flow of passengers stepping on me for a 14 hour flight.  These were the seats I had paid extra for: It is so NOT FAIR.

What was supposed to be a relaxing vacation was punctuated by these moments of such intense stress and anger. In my darkest moments — as I waited on hold, paying by the minute, for Verizon, as I stared incredulously at the hotel clerk who told me my confirmed reservation had been canceled, as I was trampled by someone going to the bathroom just as I was about to nod off — I kept thinking, “Do you know who I am?”, “This is so not right!” ,”I’M GOING TO GET YOU FOR THIS.”

I had an expectation (permanent thought) of how things should go, of what I deserved based on my level of preparation or my payment. When it didn’t go as I expected I felt personally wronged, I felt angry and I wanted revenge for being made to feel small, unimportant and out of control. But is it really not right? Can it really be ‘not how things should be,’ when it is actually how things are?

I have a delusion about the way the word works –according to my standards. But clearly right according to Alana isn’t permanent and True; it’s not the rule that governs the world. I am here, born, I put myself on planes and in hotels, into this body and this life. I am the one that comes up with my own standards and I am the one that fools myself into believing those standards are absolute. Who else can be blamed for my disappointment, discontent? Who is worthy of my revenge other than I myself?

It was a sorrowful farewell : I pulled the Porsche out of the garage for the final time and drove that tearful trail to Carmax. I took the wayward path, top-down, enjoying one last twisty turny mountain path before I hit the parking lot and went to speak to the dealer about making a sale. We were moving to NY City and the car had to stay behind. I would miss her, but I figured I could take the money for the trade-in and save it for another car later on.

It was a shock, a slap in the face, when the Carmax folks came back with an offer that barely covered the rest of the car payments. The Pro came-out to explain; that slight catching feeling I had noticed during acceleration, it was a mechanical problem — some serious $$$ repairs were necessary, so it decreased the value of the car.  It made sense, plus I had no choice with a plane to catch in just 2 days. I took their offer and left, too angry, hurt and ashamed to even look at that Porsche before walking out of the lot and to the train station.

I sat on the train and seethed — I felt so angry, deceived, ashamed — in my mind that car was so valuable, so precious. I had spent so much time, energy and care to own and preserve it. I did it, because it had ‘proved’ my wealth, my status, my on-top-of-the-fucking-worldness, for so long… and then, in the end, it proved me a fool.  It was like a husband who makes me feel so special, only for me to learn I’m but one of 100s of their lovers: Used.

“That fucking car lied” I thought.  But really, did the car whisper its worth in my ear? That car never lied to me, I lied to me.  I saw that rupa (form) and I imagined a value. In fact, I imagined a whole fairy tale with me as the buttoned-up, well-to-do, heroine with a fast and flashy car; so clever, so poised, so on-top-and-in-charge. A broken, worthless car, wrecked my fantasy — it told a different tale, one of a person who can’t preserve or control their shit, one who is hoodwinked by flashy baubles, an anti-hero loser in the end. The problem with believing my own fantasy is that reality will always, ultimately, make itself known…so is the fantasy really worth it for the temporary, delusion-based happiness it brings?

Now I have no car, no money and a whole lot of disappointment. And who set me up for that? (Me obviously).

I was walking along and suddenly got to thinking back on something strange I had seen a few years before: I was at a construction site, filled with tools and equipment, and near the center of the room was a ladder that had a post-it-note securely taped to it. The note, written in big black marker read, “Mine not yours.”

I assume the owner of the ladder had put up the note to let others know the ladder was his/hers. But, ironically, the message made it sound like the ladder belongs to any reader who reads the note. After all, when I read, ‘mine not yours’, I do so from my own perspective;  the voice in my head thinks of itself as the ‘me’ not the ‘you’.  If ownership is something that requires my or your perspective, then is it something universal? Is it capital T true?

Can a note  keep the ladder ‘faithful’ and prevent it from allowing itself to be used by someone else? Can it keep the ladder from ‘walking away’, being taken by some other worker? Can it keep the ladder from falling or breaking or losing structural integrity? The note actually tells the real truth: if my ladder, my belongings, obeyed me they wouldn’t need a note in the first place.  What is mine would act like it was mine and it would be plain for all the world to see.

Instead, a ladder, like all objects, has a ‘life of its own’. It is a combination of parts, it has a moment in time (birth) at which all those parts come together, it has a period where –like Shed– it maintains its ladder function and form (life), and ultimately it will come apart, erode, decompose, break, i.e. die. While it exists, the ladder has ‘rules of its own’, ways it can be used, limits to its function and strength and structure. Ownership can’t change any of this, and the concept of mine-ness, born from my perspective, oblivious to the reality of the object is as flimsy as the sticky note it was written on.

It was a beautiful sunny day, and since I was already on an errand in Oakland I decided to pay a visit to the historical Mountain View Cemetery, just to check it out. I went into one of the crypts and was struck by how massive it was — hallway after hallway, 4 stories tall, and that was in just one of dozens of buildings. It was like a maze. I looked at one wall, filled with names, and I realized… all these plaques look almost exactly the same. Each of these people once had lives like mine. They had families, things, activities, etc. But every person, every BODY, ends up the same.

I have a body too. Just like every other object in my life, I use it on its terms. When its hungry I feed it. When it is tired I sleep it. I think this body makes me special somehow, unique. But I clearly don’t control it, because whether I like it or not, just like every other BODY of every other person in that crypt, it will die and decay. I will be just another name on some wall somewhere.

I started thinking about my wedding dress. Like every other dress, it is made of spun threads. It had an origin: a bolt of fabric somewhere. But for some reason (i.e. my memory and imagination) my mind persuaded me to believe that the form the dress temporarily took — the particular color and shape — made it special, made it more than just a pile of fabric. And when I put it on, the dress made me feel special, it transferred its specialness to me.  I thought the dress reflected my beauty, my uniqueness, my edginess (it was red). I thought I could stand-up in front of everyone wearing it and prove what a catch-I was. How desirable I was, how lucky Eric was to score me as a wife…

I am finally starting to understand that rupa is the props that I use to sell myself the lie of my own specialness. It is the decoration that makes me mistake one dress (or one body) as so much better than/ different from the rest, when in fact all dresses are made of the same things, have the same function (clothing) and will all be torn or destroyed or rot in some other way.  On retreat I had started thinking about the dolls I used to play with as a kid. I would dress them-up in special doll clothes and then tell a story. Imagine a life for them. The clothes, the accessories, the car or the horse were a central part of the story I told. I never just played with naked dolls, there was no story there.  The story may be in my mind, but there is no way to play it out, to make it feel compelling and true, without the props.

But just like Rupa can sell me the lie, I can also look to it to learn the truth too. After all, it is no secret that sooner or latter my day in the crypt will come. No dress, no body, no hope, or prayer, or power in this universe can prevent my joining the ranks of all the other folks who are now just name plaques on a wall. How special will I be then and how special am I now if I share the same fate as everyone else?

The Story

My husband’s boss up and quits — it wasn’t exactly unexpected, she had been unhappy for a while.  But what was unexpected was that my husband wasn’t immediately promoted to her position; he was the most qualified, had been groomed to be her successor, it was, we thought, ‘in the bag’. Only, it wasn’t ‘in the bag’, and now my husband and I started to stress about his career and what came next.  Not getting the big boss job felt like a career set-back, plus someone new was likely to come-in and fire/demote all the senior staff so they could bring in their own people. Either way, it wasn’t looking good for my husband. This was bad…

Or was it? Dharma practitioner Alana started to contemplate on impermanence. I recalled my jury duty story, a time when I was so happy about an outcome until a little later when that same outcome made me sad — there is impermanence in my desires.

I thought about my last trip to the GYN: all year, I feel fine, so I don’t worry — I have the wrong view that since I was healthy before, since I feel healthy now, it will always be the case. But when I am in the Dr’s office, waiting for my exam, my mind fills with the threats of cancer and disease and troubling test results. But the truth is if the Doc finds something today it was likely there yesterday too, I just didn’t know it yet — there is impermanence in my body, my life, I am just not always aware of it.

Which brings me back to my husband and his job — we thought he would be promoted,  for sure. But whether we are aware or unaware of the uncertainty –aka impermanence — of his job, it was always there. We were upset simply because we were seeing what was always there for the first time.  The thing is, this uncertainty that surprised us when my husband didn’t get promoted can just as easily surprise us again and a different, possibly better way down the road. Or, the situation can stay the same, but our desires can change and we can be happy with this non-promoted outcome that seems so devastating right now. Likeliest of all really is that the two-sided nature of reality shows its face and we get an outcome that we see as good in some ways and bad in others.

Wandering around a cute little town in Napa, starving, my yelp app navigated me to what looked like the perfect lunch spot, a restaurant called Ad Hoc. I walked up the front steps  to peek out the menu and I saw a huge sign above the door that read, ” Ad Hoc — for the temporary relief of hunger”.

After lunch, once my hunger was temporarily relieved, I started thinking more about that sign…here I was in a fancy foodie town,  feasting on fancy foodie food and its so easy to forget exactly what food is actually for: the temporary relief of hunger. And yet, in my delusion, I often think it is so much more…

When I sashay down the aisles at Whole Foods, I feel like I belong in its foodie paradise. When others mispronounce food names –gyro, acai, poke — I silently pat myself on the back for being ‘in the know’. When Eric cooks a gourmet meal for a crowd, I beam with pride to have such a gourmond husband. For me, food is about feeding my identity as much as it is about feeding my body.

The problem is, can food actually make me a thing? When I tried my hardest to eat healthy my blood work kept coming back with high blood sugar –food didn’t make me a healthy person. When I was a vegetarian I made my whole family slaves to my dietary ‘needs’ — food didn’t make me compassionate. When I ate all the fancy restaurants in town did it make me fancy? How can a physical object I use for a brief moment in time imbue me with an abstract quality, an identity? After all, when I look under the burger bun, under the lettuce, tomato, meat paddy, I just don’t see ‘foodie identity’ lurking in any particular ingredient.

I was sitting on the beach in Maui, surveying all the stuff I had brought along on my sun and surf outing: sandals- mine, hat -mine, kindle – mine, beach chair – borrowed, beach towel-borrowed, beach games -borrowed. All these objects –mine and borrowed — just jumbled together, it made me start thinking what exactly is the difference between the two? I know, I know, in a conventional sense the mine stuff comes back home to SF, the borrowed stuff stays at the Maui beach rental. But in a dhamma sense, why do I feel so differently about these two categories of objects? Aren’t they essentially the same? After all, they are both just sets of rupa objects, living in a rupa world.