Friday Night in Danyang Valley

Friday Night at Danyang Valley

My tent is pitched between two retaining walls and next to a rock to sit on. It is a full moon on this Friday night with a hint of clouds in the sky to add to the feeling of Truth I sense here in Danyang Valley. Although not really Truth since the campground is pretty well tended to and has that air of resort. I am twenty feet from a man-made waterfall with a wooden wheel turning and spilling into a lively and vocal brook that flows down from Mt. Seobeksan. This is where I will sleep tonight.

The solitude is both comforting and disconcerting. My life in the cemented city of Cheonan does not provide this kind of solitude; even my mountain. The quiet is loud as the water cascades in all directions like my mind.

It is cool enough for me to put on a long-sleeved shirt at thirty past midnight but the night air in the mountains is nourishing my skin and pores. My first yawn of the night. A good one that inserts its message loud and clear. I will obey.

Tomorrow is the Second Annual South Korea Couchsurfing Gathering. There should be between 40-50 people coming from all over the country to attend and participate in hiking, climbing, paragliding, eating and enjoying our weekend together. I wanted to camp the night before to get my whole Self present. And I love camping this time of year.

It is working; water, mountains, green and fresh air what can rarely be achieved in city life, even for a recluse-wannabee like me.

The bookends of my Life

The Bookends of my Life


Sitting is good,
I like to sit.
Here on the mountain,
With lush green trees and plants.

I am at Home,
More so than my home.
They are my friends,
The Ones I know.

The beaten-up dirt path,
That winds it way from,
The Temple to The Church,
The bookends of my life.

The stairs i do not climb.
The graves i do not observe.
The women in their visors and long sleeves,
That pass without notice.

I have fallen in love,
Here on this mountain.
We share a vision of,
What was and what can be.

The dead bark covered in green moss,
Layers of my skin shed.
Both nourish the soil,
And connects us in a physical way.

I know it will end,
My time with this mountain,
The green trees and plants,
And the mountain itself.

Time cleanses and re-cleanses,
We are just food for the future.
The fallen pine needles cushion my steps,
I will someday serve this Earth as well.

Waka 1

I am alone here Alone need not be lonely Trees stand tall rooted Compost takes hold of Earth’s breath The force of love is relentless A vision with eyes Staring like the owl at dusk Full moon sighs tides rise Reflections of love and desire Nothing quells The Golden Mind The sand bleeds parched soles Emptying clamshells at midnight The shoreline is full Hermit crabs at home anywhere Moments wash away forever Camel humps desert The cactus knows no limit Needles poke through flesh The answer is not questioned The question is not answered The night sleeps again Sunrise lifts human blindness Hands stretch across time Seeing is not believing Rumi speaks sunset arrives River almost still A heart beating quickly Mind needs to slow down A breeze tickles the tall grass The grass returns to its post I breathe a half breath Confusion breeds illusion Dry tears shake my grip The river does snot know lies Cool tranquil waters refresh What is the next step? I can’t wait and do nothing Tadpoles scurry about The frog sits home unmoving Speed takes much time and effort

When is it Enough?

When is it Enough?

When is it enough?
5000 years and counting
Deaths too many to count
But still counting.

How many tears have been counted?
Do they have stats on that?
Blood on the streets
And in the homes.

Children left,
No parents, no homes
Is being right worth it?
Do we count nights that they cry in bed?

We blame God,
The president,
The Terrorists. The Jews.
We can count on blaming.

Merton said we were,
“Guilty Bystanders”
Does that include me?
But I voted against the war!

How am I guilty?
Is it the sports machine I oogle at?
Maybe it is what I am not doing,
When was the last time I did anything to stop war.

Every war has its cause, right?
Isn’t that what they say?
Is money a reason? God? Oil? Mount Sinai?
What about a woman, is she worth the cost?

I want it to end.
I do not know how.
Or even if it can,
Now or tomorrow.

Is lost hope the crime,
That I am guilty of?
Is silent acceptance my B-52?
Is my special ops training called comfort?

Is it enough yet? 60 million plus in WWII.
Each day more families ceased,
Than The War on Terror in its entirety.
Who are the terrorists now?

Do terrorists own mirrors?
Can they sleep at night?
Do generals tuck their kids in cold winter nights?
Are Green Berets counting the blood left on our greens?

When did hard choices,
Translate into hearts hardened?
Security and safety,
Defined stealing it from others?

Is it enough yet?
When calculators can’t total
The causalities, the Souls, the tears.
If not, when is it enough?

Jimjilbang

Jimjilbang

Lying on my back I feel the salt crystal rocks settle below me. It is like being on the beach, the way sand will embrace your body no matter what your body is like. I feel the bottom of my back scream with elation at the support that it desperately desires being answered. My hand are sweating, I pick up a crystal or two and roll them around between my thumb and fingers slowly. It brings me back to the beach again. And why not? It I shot in here, real hot. Maybe hooter than any beach I ever laid my body on. Dry heat. The kind that forces all unwanted or unneeded thoughts and toxins out of the body. I can feel every body open, free to breath. I breath, deeply. I ask for Reiki to flow through my body and wait for it to begin its flow, or maybe it was already flowing and I was just now acknowledging it. Breath, slowly and full. I allow the salt air to fill my lungs and belly. Cleaning. I feel the cleansing inside and I and people like me need plenty of cleansing. It could be a full time job. In fact, there was a time it was my full-time job. But these days I have an external full-time job so the need for cleanser is greater, much greater. I enjoy the sensation of the sweat dripping down the sides of my face and it is proof of the cleansing. Evidence. I tend to make thing up in my head so evidence it always helpful. The cleansing continues. There is a handful of other sin the slat crystal room, all enjoying their own version of the same process. We are together but doing it singularly, but I am conscious of their presence, of community. Salt, heat and sweat go way back, back before we had words like salt, heat and sweat. I like experiencing this kind of community in silence.

Once when participating in a retreat at the Abbey Gethsemane where Thomas Merton lived and wrote, I remember reading a little folded white standing card:
“silence is spoken here”. Is there a greater way to experience community than in silence?

Time is bending and I get up after about twenty minutes or maybe three or fifty, and make my way out. My face is red; I can feel its redness. It is clean; I can feel its cleanness. My body is soft, I can feel its comfort as my arms dangle as I open the door and leave. I am brought back to the fact that I am in a public place with hundreds of people at the local Jimjilbang, a Korean bathhouse. I love these places! Jimjilbang and bowing are my two favorite aspects of Korean life. I have been to a couple of Jimjilbang and each time my experience has risen above the previous. I feel at home here dripping with sweat amongst people I do not know and cannot orally communicate with. There are families, couples and friends resting, talking, reading and sleeping in the large main room. It is warm in here but not like the Korean versions of a sauna. The salt crystal rock rooms are one of my favorites. They are always my first stop. If for no other reason, I stop there first to seat ad to mold my body to the crystals and rest till I separate myself from the me that is not me that I walk around pretending to be all day, every day. I am simple here, very simple. Heat, sweat, silence, breath and water.

While walking around the main area to allow my body to regulate a little, I decide it is time to venture to my other favorite room. I do not actually know what it is called. It is a room shaped like a dome with part of the walls pine, which I live the smell of, and part id bamboo think. We lie on the floor or lean against wooden plank to prop yourself against the wall. If lying down, we lie on a sack made of canvas or burlap or something like that. It is comfortable but not as much as the crystals nestled in the back in butt. I start on my back for a short period. This room is always significantly hotter, much like the heat of a cranked up sweat lodge in the middle of summer. A specific one comes to mind near Charlottesville, Virginia, USA this past summer where I had an incredibly forceful experience with a bunch of recent college graduates I just met and camped, ate, sweat and did Reiki together. Sweat lodges are typically naked, Jimjilbang every body is given cotton shorts and t-shorts that are strong and comfortable. Five minutes later I sit up, legs crossed and do some basic meditation leaning against the wooden plank. I notice others are seated differently but I continue being different because I an doing what I need to be doing for right now. I breathe heavy an deep. I pray for those in the room with me and thank them for being here. I feel our connection with my eyes closed and glasses hanging for the collar of my shirt. I sweat more and more. Peace. Love. Sharing. Two young ladies enter together. There is only one wooden plank to lean against which is directly to my left. They sit, one on the plan and one in front of her sitting crossed legged. It tales a minute for me to respond but I motion for her to take my spot and I slide over slowly to an open space against the wall. I am again reminded of that sweat in Virginia. I decide in need to write stefin and graham and tell them I miss them, love them and am grateful our paths crossed for a short but profound four days. Love can do that to us, at least me. More softness while totally grounded and present. I soak it in and feel my breathing start tot strain from the heat. No reason to stay to stroke my ego. I exit through the door that looks just like and oven door from the outside. The water fountain is right next to the door outside in the main room again. I allow a woman with her head wrapped in a towel go ahead of me, she is sweating profusely and looks as if she needs it more than me. She does not smile. I drink my water and walk towards door number three, no numbers do not label them. They have writing outside in Hangeul, which I cannot understand, yet.

It is the room that I think is referred to as the “kiln”. It is not as hot as the other but I have been to another Jimjilbang that has three:”kilns” with varying degrees of heat. I do not remember much about the room except it is a semi-dome with little sacks full of herbs hanging above your head. The strength of the herbs that enters my nose and throat make me a tad dizzy but still grounded. I stay just a few minutes, done with heat for tonight. I leave and reflect on what to do next; stay and reads in the main room, spend a few minutes in the ice room, shower, leave for home, take a nap or head to the gender-segregated Korean communal hot bathtubs. I decide to brave it and go to the ice room. I enter the double sliding glass door and see this one is not like some of the others that have more than a foot of ice on the walls and ceiling. It is just cold, real cold for bare feet and shorts. It feels like such a relief and balance from the heat. A little girl comes in to sit next to “the foreigner”. She smiles sweetly and somehow lets me know she likes me being there. I try to do the same for her. Our exchange is complete in two minutes and she leaves to join her little brother outside to watch “the foreigner”. When cooled enough, I leave and head down towards the men’s area still not sure what is next of the list above.

I go for it and join the naked Korean men and boys in the baths. They are all smooth-skinned and bare of nay body hair except their head and pubic. I am a bear. I have more hair the city of Cheonan. I slide into the mini pool and observe a young boy startled as he looks at me. I am self-conscious for a brief moment but choose to stay present on my experience. It is nice but not thrilling for me right now. I get out and enter the room that is similar to a steam room with little cement mounted “stools” to sit on. There is one man in there already completely absorbed in his experience. I do the same. A few minutes and done. Ready for a shower and to walk home. This all costed the equivalent of $8.00. I walk home totally satisfied, renewed and breathing in the winter night air. It is near midnight on Saturday night and I am happy. I feel alive and part of the world. I exist and I count. This is why I go to the Jimjilbang. Maybe I will sleep there next time. And there will be a next time, and another after that.

Sirens

I am baffled, completely. I have been here in Cheonan, South Korea for three and half months and I have only heard three sirens during that period. I live about three hundred yards from the local police station. You would think I would hear them fancy sirens they have go off just to test them, like they do with fire trucks in the USA.

Siren #1: In August, no September, no it was August I was taking a bus to Incheon-Seoul Airport for a flight to Japan, while trying to fall asleep from boredom and exhaustion of going to bed after midnight and waking at 4:445a.m. to meditate, catch two buses and make it to the airport on time; I heard my first Korean siren. It caught me off guard due to my groggy state and the never before heard sound of a Korean ambulance. It passed us in a hurry on Highway 1 in a buzz and flash. I fell asleep a moment later.

Siren #2: A September evening walk through Ssang-yongdong on an atypically warm night but still cool enough to enjoy the occasional breeze and fresh air without sweat to get in the way. I crossed Ssang-yongdong 2 towards the park I have a thing for, especially at night. It is an open area with pretty red, green, yellow and burnt orange tiled floor and benches along the perimeter in two semi-circles and a circular bench-like place to rest and enjoy the trees, grass and seafood restaurant across the skinny street. I can see the stars and clouds anytime I go there. I have painted there on Sunday afternoons to enjoy sun, air and well, painting. This night I was still passing Highvill apartments across from the better Paris Baguette in my neighborhood when I heard my first Korean police siren. It startled me. The sound was foreign and piercing. Almost nightly I walk past the police station twice on my way out and in from a walk wondering what a police siren sounds like here. The first time caught me by surprise somehow. I must be the inner anticipation of sitting on the circular bench-like thing staring at stars and nothing. I stopped when I heard it moving closer, quickly and forcefully. And there it was, a police car with blue and red lights and a siren. I gawked at it like I do the first time I see a barely covered young woman in a bikini every spring like I have never seen a woman before. I forgot where I was going when I was done gawking and the police car was out of my visual proximity. Bikinis, yum!

Siren #3: I was walking home from school and had just passed the police station. The police car went less than a block before finding whatever it was looking for. I saw no urgency or criminals or anything. Just a siren and a cop car driving a half block and the two tall thin male officers dressed in tan uniforms leaving the vehicle and standing by the patrol car looking at something. Nothing happened that I can see but they stayed there for a at least the two minutes I watched from the corner where the silly looking blown up sign in front of the cell phone store is across the street. I hate those blow-up signs I see around here at cell phone places. Sometimes I feel like popping them when I walk by. A product of growing up as a boy in America, the deep need to destroy thing because I can. They don’t do that here for some reason. I left to get home and take my nightly 15-20 minute Reiki nap on the floor before dinner.

I am baffled. Why does a city with a half million people all living so close together not need police sirens for crimes or crisis situations? How are there no fires? Doesn’t anybody ever need to go to the hospital with an emergency? I do not get it. How is this possible? I live two blocks from the police station and work across the street from it with my classroom staring directly at its front door with my windows open every day. Where are the emergencies and crisis? Baffled, simply baffled.

Oscar the Janitor

I started working for the Urban League of Greater Madison in October of 2003. The first project I worked on and the whole four plus years I worker there, was at a middle school here in Madison, Wisconsin.

After being at the school for a little while, I noticed one of the janitors. His name is Oscar and he is a beautiful man from Costa Rico. He has a dark complexion for a Costa Rican with a graying beard and sideburns and short wavy balding hair. He typically wears t-shirts with bright colors. His brown eyes are full and deep. He moved to the states many years ago as an adult. He is friendly in such a warm and genuine manner that it is hard not to want to be around him. To be honest, his smile beams greater than almost anyone I have ever seen. It radiates out to fill up the whole hallway while having casual conversation. He always has a minute to engage in brief interactions; every one of them is filled with all his presence and sweetness.

One day, some of the boys were making fun of Oscar but he paid no mind while they laughed and teased him about “being just a janitor”. One of my co-workers pulled the boys into our room and shut the door. I was new to the scene, but knew what that meant. Arthur and Barry, the two guys I share space with, shut the door when they want to say things that would get them fired with the door open. He explained to the boys how disrespectful and rude it was to speak to a janitor like that. One of the boys made a comment like "Yeah, but he is just a janitor!" Then Arthur shared with the boys (and me) about Oscar:

Oscar had been a high level corporate executive, a real mover and shaker. He owns several expensive cars and retired early after accumulating more wealth than needed. After retiring, he wanted to be around kids but did not want to have the responsibility for them. So, he chose to be a school janitor.

My mentor has an expression that I hold close to me. She talks about "hiding in plain site". By this, she means being out in the world but drawing no special attention to yourself- being present without being noticed. Oscar is a master at hiding in plain site. He cleans the classrooms and bathrooms with such ease and grace. He moves his boom box with him down the halls after-school, while listening to the local Spanish station, La Movida. He never stresses or looks bothered by the mess the kids make. You would never even know he can read or write by how simply he carries himself, forget about being a high powered corporate executive.

I hope sometime in my life I smile once as brightly and beautifully, as he does daily while cleaning school hallways, classrooms and bathrooms. My mentor has recommended to me many times over the last 15+ years that being a night janitor would be an excellent job for me- working with my hands, simple, focused, no drama and do something for people who never know you do it for them. I am still too attached to being important to make that leap yet. It is not that I do not see the benefit for me, I do. It is just the ego is still firmly in control of this man.

The Truth is that his smile has its source in him, not in his moisturizer, shower gel or "age defying cream". Peace, Joy and Love are the original beauty secrets (and much cheaper too). For those who want another more practical resource Dr. Bronner's Magic Soaps. Their quote is " Enjoy only 2 cosmetics, enough sleep & Dr. Bronner's Magic Soap to clean body-mind-soul-spirit instantly uniting ONE! All-One!" They are the only the only products I use on a regular basis. It is Oscar's Inner smile that brightens the hallways. It is his willingness to give without need for thanks or recognition that shines for us to see if we look. I have run into Oscar several times out while he is walking his two really cool, unusual dogs, and that same presence and peace is still there.

Happiness and the willingness to share it with others is the secret to staying, feeling and looking young. I am grateful I have had a janitor like Oscar in my life to remind me of how this all works.

My friend Oscar The Janitor.

The Janitor

It was the second time I had visited the Tibetan Buddhist Learning Center, Labsum Shedrup Ling. Leanne and I decided we would spend New Year's together on a retreat at the center. The retreat had a focus on The Buddhist Lineage, neither this, nor the fact that I became infatuated with a twenty-year-old girl at the retreat is important to this particular reflection. Before I dive in, I would like mention that I knew very little about Buddhism when we signed up to participate. Leanne did. I just knew that there was some kind of Inner Connection with Buddhism and me.

The first time I noticed him was during the initial shared meal. He was sitting somewhat distanced from most of the folks there, but I could tell he lived there. He was wearing very plain grey pants and shirt; the kind that most janitors wear. He seemed almost disinterested in the events and happenings around him. It appeared as if he was enjoying his meal, content and grateful just to be there. The first thought that went through my mind while watching him was something like this, "WOW! If this is what their janitors are like, I can't wait to see the monks! I am definitely going to become a Buddhist." He helped clean up as if he does it every day and what he does there. He showed people where to find things and whatever they needed like a typical worker would do at any place else. But there was something very different about this janitor. He was so simple and radiant in his way of being. He smiled simply but beautifully with a sincerity that was rare. I noticed myself staring and observing him beyond what is socially acceptable but I couldn't stop myself. He was special in a way that I had not known previously. I was in awe of the way he carried himself, and the Inner contentment that was his being. I remember thinking to myself, "Where do they find janitors like this in Tibet?" Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, he was an older Tibetan man, possibly in his sixties. He had those facial features that only men and women that have walked this earth for a while and have learned more than the rest of us. The lines on their face seem deeper and richer, as if each one tells a story.

I was talking with someone during another meal the following day and asked about the janitor. The person I was speaking with smiled and informed me, “He is not the janitor.” I immediately felt embarrassed. Then he shared with me, “He is actually one of the men that helped lead The Dalai Llama on his exile from Tibet to India.” I froze and thought, "What an idiot I am!' When I regained my composure, I asked the guy I was conversing with, “Is he a monk?” He smiled again and said something to the effect of, "Yes, he is definitely a monk. He decided after successfully leading the Dalai Llama safely to India; he could now stop wearing his robe and dress like the rest of us."

I did get to meet and have a few conversations with him over the next year or so. He is a very kind and gentle man. To me, he is Buddhism. I say this because he exudes the virtues that I think of when I am thinking about what it is to be a Buddhist practitioner. He is simple, kind and warm. He has no interest in drawing any special attention to himself or his accomplishments. He has genuine Humility but is not self-defeating or a door mat. Honesty and Truth just ooze out of every part of his being and it is all genuine. He is not "acting" like this to show us what these traits are like, he is these traits.

In America, Buddhists often are very intellectual and full of book knowledge on Buddhism and all its Teachings and philosophy. They are ready to engage in intellectual debate, armed with all their book knowledge. To me, this is far from what being a true Buddhist is. Buddhists do not try to show off their knowledge or meditation skills. If for no other reason than the Humility of knowing that we all truly know very little, and what we know today as "Truth" may shift as we develop and evolve. Being able to quote Koans is different than being able to live Koans. Being able to sit for long periods is different than being able to learn for long periods.

For me, I want to evolve enough to be as dull as dishwater. I am far from there and rarely am willing to let go of my desire for attention and recognition. These attachments hold me back, and in turn, hold back those I try to help. A Teacher can only take a student as far as they have gone themselves. I realize that this is not true in academia, but my experience interprets this to be true in spiritual development. Genuine Humility seems to be a lost virtue in our culture these days. It often gets confused as putting yourself down in a self-deprecating manner. Humility is being right size, not big or small, weak nor strong, aggressive nor passive, best nor worst, etc. We are Humble when we allow our True Self to shine through. The moments I experience this kind of Humility are typically in either Genuine Prayer or Genuine service. I heard somebody once say "We should do something good for somebody else every day and not get caught." To me, this is the essence of the janitor. He was a very special somebody but was a total nobody.

Can you imagine what the world would be like if each one of us did one thing every day for somebody else without getting caught? Are you up for the challenge?