morning contradictions (hipocrisy?)
After my Sunday trip to Shambhala, I followed up with a good old, all-American shopping spree. Maybe last night's righteous indignation was too much for me? I don't know.
Shambhala is such a strange, solitary experience. I drive across town (will bike soon, I swear) to sit for an hour (or two, or three) on a cushion in an incensed room full of strangers. My "sangha" -- which is your buddhist community, if you're buddhist -- yet a silent "community", a community with no communion. I've been going to Shambhala a few times a month since December and I still don't know anyone or talk to anyone while I'm there. The nature of the practice necessitates silence and respect. We don't even look at one another while we're sitting or walking, we keep our eyes low, a loose gaze at nothing, in the vacinity of the ground three feet in front of us. Only stolen glances now and then reveal flashes of the others who share the room with me. There would seem to be time for chatting and mingling before and after the sitting, however, I have yet to work this out. Sunday mornings start at 9, and even if you did show up a bit early, you're likely to be the only one there. Seems everyone likes to skip the "chanting" which starts the three-hour Sunday sitting. As far as after -- my time on the cushion puts me in a too silent, too contemplative space to launch immediately into socializing. I usually get up, stretch, and leave as soon as it's over. Or I leave early, which is what I did today. After an hour, my knees were hurting and I felt I'd put enough time in. I think the Tuesday evening sittings are more lively and, once classes end at the end of the month, I'll check those out again. It would be nice to engage just a little more with my so-called sangha.
After my sitting, I left with visions of a Southeast Portland shopping spree. Certainly, this was not the shopping spree of my mother or the mall-hoppers or others in what I consider the consumer classes, however, it was a tour-of-consumerism none-the-less. First I went to Powell's on Hawthorne. When I first moved from CB's in February, I took a ton of books to Powell's and got over a hundred bucks of store credit, which I've slowly whittled down since. Today I took the remainder from $80 to $30 and walked out with a stack of volumes about Israel, the Holocaust and the Warsaw ghetto. My most recent research topic. After, I sat in the crowded Fresh Pot coffeeshop, which is attached to Powell's, drinking coffee and reading through the first pages of all five of my new books. I love books. After the movie last night, I'm thrown into a very serious mood and felt my brow furrowed and my nostrils flared as I read a few lines, then stopped to stare out the window, thinking-thinking-thinking. So much to think about. Amazing how much time I've wasted in my life, afraid to dive in and learn and think and read and engage with the world. Amazing.
After awhile, I dragged myself off my little stool and down the street to Fred Meyer (like Wal-Mart, but smaller and owned by Kroger) where I had a few things to buy. Last week my grandmother, god bless her, sent me a card with a one-hundred dollar bill in it. Whenever I open a card from my grandmother and find a large bill, I gasp. Not a gasp of new-money glee. A gasp of startled dismay that she still runs cash-money through the post. First, I have tried to assure her that she doesn't need to send me money. It's not like she's rolling in money herself. But, if she insists on sending something, I have begged her to send checks. She won't listen. Why? It's sad, the reason. She won't send checks because she doesn't want to leave any trace of the money she's sent me. She has 13 grandkids and after she's dead she doesn't want anyone coming along and going through her books and seeing that, over the years, she's given me more money than she's given any of my cousins. She doesn't want anyone to feel bad. I'm the favorite. That's a story for another time, but long ago it became clear that my grandparents treated me less like one of 13 grandkids and more like their own (late-coming) sixth child. Which has always been pretty touching and when my grandmother (who is now 87) passes, I will be a fucking basket case.
Anyway, off I went to Fred Meyer with my hundred-dollar bill. I decided to buy the few things I felt like I needed: A new toothbrush. More boxers. Vitamins (which I haven't taken in months) and some MSM (to hopefully help with my knees and hips -- never too young, apparantly, to have fucked up joints). Shampoo. A bike pump. I saw, while checking out the pumps, that all bike equipment was 20% off. That's when I discovered that I *also* needed bike lights and a new gel seat cover. If I want to bike more, my bike has to be adequately outfitted. Now, I have no excuses. I made two impulse buys (besides the extra bike equipment): a new hanging plant and a set of bamboo wind chimes. The wandering Jew I bought when I first moved in isn't faring well, so it's getting bumped from it's prime spot and put in the hospice wing of the windowsill. Hanging now on its old hook is a gorgeous, green pothos, like the one in the bathroom. Maybe the sick little Jew will make a recovery. We'll see. As for the wind-chimes, they're pretty sweet. I was excited to see on the tag that they came from Washington state (ie: relatively local), but I should've read more carefully. After I hung them, I noticed the sticker on the bamboo that said "made in Indonesia" -- turns out, the Washington company has them made in "Thailand and Bali," according to the fine print on the tag. Whatever. Hopefully they pay the craftspeople a respectable amount for the trade.
Now. Lunch.
Shambhala is such a strange, solitary experience. I drive across town (will bike soon, I swear) to sit for an hour (or two, or three) on a cushion in an incensed room full of strangers. My "sangha" -- which is your buddhist community, if you're buddhist -- yet a silent "community", a community with no communion. I've been going to Shambhala a few times a month since December and I still don't know anyone or talk to anyone while I'm there. The nature of the practice necessitates silence and respect. We don't even look at one another while we're sitting or walking, we keep our eyes low, a loose gaze at nothing, in the vacinity of the ground three feet in front of us. Only stolen glances now and then reveal flashes of the others who share the room with me. There would seem to be time for chatting and mingling before and after the sitting, however, I have yet to work this out. Sunday mornings start at 9, and even if you did show up a bit early, you're likely to be the only one there. Seems everyone likes to skip the "chanting" which starts the three-hour Sunday sitting. As far as after -- my time on the cushion puts me in a too silent, too contemplative space to launch immediately into socializing. I usually get up, stretch, and leave as soon as it's over. Or I leave early, which is what I did today. After an hour, my knees were hurting and I felt I'd put enough time in. I think the Tuesday evening sittings are more lively and, once classes end at the end of the month, I'll check those out again. It would be nice to engage just a little more with my so-called sangha.
After my sitting, I left with visions of a Southeast Portland shopping spree. Certainly, this was not the shopping spree of my mother or the mall-hoppers or others in what I consider the consumer classes, however, it was a tour-of-consumerism none-the-less. First I went to Powell's on Hawthorne. When I first moved from CB's in February, I took a ton of books to Powell's and got over a hundred bucks of store credit, which I've slowly whittled down since. Today I took the remainder from $80 to $30 and walked out with a stack of volumes about Israel, the Holocaust and the Warsaw ghetto. My most recent research topic. After, I sat in the crowded Fresh Pot coffeeshop, which is attached to Powell's, drinking coffee and reading through the first pages of all five of my new books. I love books. After the movie last night, I'm thrown into a very serious mood and felt my brow furrowed and my nostrils flared as I read a few lines, then stopped to stare out the window, thinking-thinking-thinking. So much to think about. Amazing how much time I've wasted in my life, afraid to dive in and learn and think and read and engage with the world. Amazing.
After awhile, I dragged myself off my little stool and down the street to Fred Meyer (like Wal-Mart, but smaller and owned by Kroger) where I had a few things to buy. Last week my grandmother, god bless her, sent me a card with a one-hundred dollar bill in it. Whenever I open a card from my grandmother and find a large bill, I gasp. Not a gasp of new-money glee. A gasp of startled dismay that she still runs cash-money through the post. First, I have tried to assure her that she doesn't need to send me money. It's not like she's rolling in money herself. But, if she insists on sending something, I have begged her to send checks. She won't listen. Why? It's sad, the reason. She won't send checks because she doesn't want to leave any trace of the money she's sent me. She has 13 grandkids and after she's dead she doesn't want anyone coming along and going through her books and seeing that, over the years, she's given me more money than she's given any of my cousins. She doesn't want anyone to feel bad. I'm the favorite. That's a story for another time, but long ago it became clear that my grandparents treated me less like one of 13 grandkids and more like their own (late-coming) sixth child. Which has always been pretty touching and when my grandmother (who is now 87) passes, I will be a fucking basket case.
Anyway, off I went to Fred Meyer with my hundred-dollar bill. I decided to buy the few things I felt like I needed: A new toothbrush. More boxers. Vitamins (which I haven't taken in months) and some MSM (to hopefully help with my knees and hips -- never too young, apparantly, to have fucked up joints). Shampoo. A bike pump. I saw, while checking out the pumps, that all bike equipment was 20% off. That's when I discovered that I *also* needed bike lights and a new gel seat cover. If I want to bike more, my bike has to be adequately outfitted. Now, I have no excuses. I made two impulse buys (besides the extra bike equipment): a new hanging plant and a set of bamboo wind chimes. The wandering Jew I bought when I first moved in isn't faring well, so it's getting bumped from it's prime spot and put in the hospice wing of the windowsill. Hanging now on its old hook is a gorgeous, green pothos, like the one in the bathroom. Maybe the sick little Jew will make a recovery. We'll see. As for the wind-chimes, they're pretty sweet. I was excited to see on the tag that they came from Washington state (ie: relatively local), but I should've read more carefully. After I hung them, I noticed the sticker on the bamboo that said "made in Indonesia" -- turns out, the Washington company has them made in "Thailand and Bali," according to the fine print on the tag. Whatever. Hopefully they pay the craftspeople a respectable amount for the trade.
Now. Lunch.
posted by reasonably prudent poet at 2:15 PM
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