Today was a pleasant day in the fifth grade, possibly more pleasant for me than when I was actually in the fifth grade. Let's see, what do I remember, practically nothing about that year (1956?), except playing basketball against the 6th graders, and our team did pretty good, (I believe we lost, even so) because I was playing with all the "good guys" however I wasn't one of them in the same sense. I think this was the year that I figured out about the rotation of Earth on it's axis and was able to visualize how it would spin, tilt and revolve around Sun all at the same time. And then of course we learned about Moon and constellations. I still find astronomy fascinating, and read Discover Magazine frequently.
Today we made paper airplanes in the science class because it was the first day in a new booklet on "Variables" and it talked about experiments and scientific inquiry, and it took 15 minutes to read it and then there was nothing planned that I could find, so we did our own experiments with aeronautics. There was a lesson on this in the back of the booklet, so we just jumped ahead, it is something that can always be repeated. Since these kids did not have PE or recess in the AM, we opened the door and went outside to fly the planes. Great fun, even for me.
We had a math lesson on addition, which seemed rather late for 5th grade, a problem on factors, and then a crossword puzzle on fractions, and multiplying and other maths. That was good. There were some of the students who still didn't get the worksheet on addition correct, at least not very quickly, and some who had it done practically before it got passed out. This is a very multi-cultural, multi-ethnic community with students from several different countries. Math-crossword puzzles are a great way to review a lot of math and connect the maths to language. I don't think I had ever seen one before.
Last Friday I taught English in freshman high school, and it is always so depressing to see how poorly students write and think in the 9th grade. There must be something about that freshman year, some are still writing at 5th grade levels. Many of the fifth graders would out perform half the 9th graders.
I am including some short poems because I know there is someone out there who likes short poems!
After the rain
Reflecting on this scene is apt
Because after the rain everywhere
I see pools reflecting.
So seeing and understanding
Is made easier
When in this way Nature echoes its visions.
Animated
The mist dances gracefully above the polished surface of Beaver Pond
Partnering, animated with the sparkling reflections of the elegant trees
Made happy and brilliant by early morning Sun.
I.J. Hall, July 24, 2004
Godly
Planting flowers, bulbs and seeds
Is an erstwhile godly act
Knowing the future
Planning for the beauty
That will inevitably follow.
I.J. Hall, July 24, 2004
Monday, September 29, 2008
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Memoir 105
I watched you for such a long time
as long as I can remember
without ever trying
these memories come tumbling
bruising and unwelcome
replacing other more modern thoughts
when these are no better but easier
I watched you grow older
although I never changed
as I saw the scenes of my youth
through the same curious eyes
trying to see beyond the skin
for the motivation searching the distorted love
I watched you being there seldom smiling
a fixture yet so remote in a different world
ignorant of my unspoken expectations
a place I could not understand
nor never will until I see myself
in that same isolated space alone
and you stayed there for so long
under the scrutiny of my noticing
and you influenced me too much
as I think about it now
wanting to be different
wanting to be so much better
but I’m not, which is my burden
I watched you when you went away
a confused stranger to yourself
and I did see you then as you were
vulnerable, self critical to a fault
lacking in that core self esteem
I could only see the negative space
like a shadow without a standard
I watched you then in my mind
as a wishful, errant, hapless spirit
somehow distant and unknowable
possibly, I felt sorry for you
I watched you when you were not there
as someone I wanted to see in a different way
I felt sorry for myself
a fledgling too early on his own
but that is the course of nature
that is the curse and blessing of Humanity
to have you yet not to know you
to be of you yet to seek my own way
I watched you taking the place of no one else
but not holding that place until later
and when later came the shoes were switched
and needing to have a different life
and bravely, I pursued that love
that calls us all to our tasks
mine was no less automatic than yours
and equally unfulfilled, lacking
but by that vacantness made somehow larger
I watched you then with your wounded pride
resolute to see beyond yourself
isolated from your own potential
condemned by your own failed ambitions
unsettled always imagining a higher worth
I watched you as a sad, broken mirror
of whom I did not want to be but am
in so many ways I cannot shake
yet there is this resonating voice
of gratitude gnawing that calls me right
to thank my fortune for my grace
I watch you alive in me
to make a better world in a feeble way
striving in this way for undeserved immortality
this voice is a whisper in each wind
reminding me of whom I am in spite of myself
taking me down but sustaining me
ambiguous feelings of regret and forgiveness
grateful for what so many have not
envious for what so few have in abundance
I watch you in my voice, in my walk
I know you better from whom I am
than from what I saw, bewildered.
Written on September 26, 2008, 105th anniversary of the birth of Joseph Reed Jacob who passed away April 22, 1971
as long as I can remember
without ever trying
these memories come tumbling
bruising and unwelcome
replacing other more modern thoughts
when these are no better but easier
I watched you grow older
although I never changed
as I saw the scenes of my youth
through the same curious eyes
trying to see beyond the skin
for the motivation searching the distorted love
I watched you being there seldom smiling
a fixture yet so remote in a different world
ignorant of my unspoken expectations
a place I could not understand
nor never will until I see myself
in that same isolated space alone
and you stayed there for so long
under the scrutiny of my noticing
and you influenced me too much
as I think about it now
wanting to be different
wanting to be so much better
but I’m not, which is my burden
I watched you when you went away
a confused stranger to yourself
and I did see you then as you were
vulnerable, self critical to a fault
lacking in that core self esteem
I could only see the negative space
like a shadow without a standard
I watched you then in my mind
as a wishful, errant, hapless spirit
somehow distant and unknowable
possibly, I felt sorry for you
I watched you when you were not there
as someone I wanted to see in a different way
I felt sorry for myself
a fledgling too early on his own
but that is the course of nature
that is the curse and blessing of Humanity
to have you yet not to know you
to be of you yet to seek my own way
I watched you taking the place of no one else
but not holding that place until later
and when later came the shoes were switched
and needing to have a different life
and bravely, I pursued that love
that calls us all to our tasks
mine was no less automatic than yours
and equally unfulfilled, lacking
but by that vacantness made somehow larger
I watched you then with your wounded pride
resolute to see beyond yourself
isolated from your own potential
condemned by your own failed ambitions
unsettled always imagining a higher worth
I watched you as a sad, broken mirror
of whom I did not want to be but am
in so many ways I cannot shake
yet there is this resonating voice
of gratitude gnawing that calls me right
to thank my fortune for my grace
I watch you alive in me
to make a better world in a feeble way
striving in this way for undeserved immortality
this voice is a whisper in each wind
reminding me of whom I am in spite of myself
taking me down but sustaining me
ambiguous feelings of regret and forgiveness
grateful for what so many have not
envious for what so few have in abundance
I watch you in my voice, in my walk
I know you better from whom I am
than from what I saw, bewildered.
Written on September 26, 2008, 105th anniversary of the birth of Joseph Reed Jacob who passed away April 22, 1971
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Pregnant with Love
(On the occassion of just becomming for the 10th time a grandpa,
my new grandson is in Atlanta tonight for his first night,
however I thought how appropriate this poem was,
not entirely, but in different ways appropriate for differernt people
as are most poems.)
I am lying here pregnant with hope.
For the last six months I have resisted writing this poem.
It has resided in my subconscious
as a dream or vision of a hopeful life
together with a stable and solid friend.
Not in a - too good to be true – way
But in a way that if you talk about it,
the dream might not come to pass.
This vision is still gestating, protected
it has begun metamorphosis
And gradually, ever so cautiously
it is articulating, swelling and growing.
I can feel its heart beating with mine
as I visualize scenes from the future
vividly. Kind touching and sharing
Ideas, feelings and telling -- pure emotions
that are wholesome and beneficial
dance across the theatre of my mind.
These are just a few of the predictions that pass
my minds’ eye as the wisp of a concept.
Others elaborate - evocative of physical stimulation-
In this poem they take life, larger more wishfully
than I have dared to think.
Thus I am making myself vulnerable
As the only possible way to honestly begin.
But I have not shared this preamble
And until I do, it will remain dormant.
The first reading will be its birth
Our first kiss will be its first breath
We have already shared our first touch
Innocently but significantly, I touched
Her elbow in parting
Making “…good night…” a passing of energy
A test of the current that might spark between us
in a future - that will have to wait
for a grander more auspicious ceremony
to inaugurate this vision into life.
What and when shall that be?
What sign will I know to advance this cause?
I will trust in the spontaneity that can only grow
out of a mutual dream.
Only then will I step forward and take ownership
Of this living and virtuous love as a newborn
And bless it with these simple words:
“I want to love you.”
my new grandson is in Atlanta tonight for his first night,
however I thought how appropriate this poem was,
not entirely, but in different ways appropriate for differernt people
as are most poems.)
I am lying here pregnant with hope.
For the last six months I have resisted writing this poem.
It has resided in my subconscious
as a dream or vision of a hopeful life
together with a stable and solid friend.
Not in a - too good to be true – way
But in a way that if you talk about it,
the dream might not come to pass.
This vision is still gestating, protected
it has begun metamorphosis
And gradually, ever so cautiously
it is articulating, swelling and growing.
I can feel its heart beating with mine
as I visualize scenes from the future
vividly. Kind touching and sharing
Ideas, feelings and telling -- pure emotions
that are wholesome and beneficial
dance across the theatre of my mind.
These are just a few of the predictions that pass
my minds’ eye as the wisp of a concept.
Others elaborate - evocative of physical stimulation-
In this poem they take life, larger more wishfully
than I have dared to think.
Thus I am making myself vulnerable
As the only possible way to honestly begin.
But I have not shared this preamble
And until I do, it will remain dormant.
The first reading will be its birth
Our first kiss will be its first breath
We have already shared our first touch
Innocently but significantly, I touched
Her elbow in parting
Making “…good night…” a passing of energy
A test of the current that might spark between us
in a future - that will have to wait
for a grander more auspicious ceremony
to inaugurate this vision into life.
What and when shall that be?
What sign will I know to advance this cause?
I will trust in the spontaneity that can only grow
out of a mutual dream.
Only then will I step forward and take ownership
Of this living and virtuous love as a newborn
And bless it with these simple words:
“I want to love you.”
Monday, September 15, 2008
In Tune with Nature
This has been another relaxing weekend in Pullman, for the most part.
Looking back I can't point to anything in particular that I have accomplished, except managing to unscrew the standpipe of the underground oil tank the original home owners left us. The furnace here was converted to gas, and the seller said they didn't know about an oil tank, and of course here it is, and I have determined that it has about 40 gal of heating oil still in it, (which means it doesn't leak probably) and the procedure is to empty the tank and then fill it with sand so it doesn't collapse some time in the future. So, I can do all that now that it is open and located etc. It is possible to do all that without having a permit, but I have called to get a permit, preferring to get lots of professional advice and wishing to do it right!
This is hardly a natural sequence of events, very much the opposite, the relic of man's gross footprint onto nature, at least potentially, considering there are likely 1,000's of houses around here with the same situation.
The only thing natural around here are the birds, with the finches coming daily to feed on the sunflower seeds and niger seeds. The quail come around constantly and sing such a pleasant natural song, like tuning in the radio to the songs that were here thirty thousand years ago, even before man arrived (which was thought to be about 11,000 years ago.) In the Fall of 2007, I took a class in Anthropology, the Archeology of the Pacific Northwest, which was very interesting. (And I exceeded my expectations for grade.) And I studied about the Bering Land Bridge, etc., and one concept in particular I wrote a paper on "Interactive Spheres." This describes how cultures divided by hundreds and thousands of miles can and did influence each other in those early days of pre-history. This concept can be used in other geographic regions to identify how disparate groups of people shared ideas, have similar words in their languages, used similar tools, valued similar "grave goods" and developed similar beliefs even though thousands of miles apart.
Turning the page:
Scrub Oak
I have been confused by the scrub oak
of all things.
They have been so encumbered
apparently
With a ragged coat of old brown leaves
which remains. Even now
as the pale, chartreuse
beginnings of Spring vegetation
is pleasantly returning to them,
I am forced
involuntarily
to compare this to my own character.
I.J. Hall
April 10, 2004
Moss
The moss lies softly on the scrub oak
Warming and protecting the willing branches,
but does not like the fir.
The affinity the oak shares satisfies the mosses' needs
more than do the handsome firs,
Yet each of these sturdy trees wears their finest
And gives solace with their unique beauty.
I.J. Hall, February 28, 2004, Eugene, OR.
Looking back I can't point to anything in particular that I have accomplished, except managing to unscrew the standpipe of the underground oil tank the original home owners left us. The furnace here was converted to gas, and the seller said they didn't know about an oil tank, and of course here it is, and I have determined that it has about 40 gal of heating oil still in it, (which means it doesn't leak probably) and the procedure is to empty the tank and then fill it with sand so it doesn't collapse some time in the future. So, I can do all that now that it is open and located etc. It is possible to do all that without having a permit, but I have called to get a permit, preferring to get lots of professional advice and wishing to do it right!
This is hardly a natural sequence of events, very much the opposite, the relic of man's gross footprint onto nature, at least potentially, considering there are likely 1,000's of houses around here with the same situation.
The only thing natural around here are the birds, with the finches coming daily to feed on the sunflower seeds and niger seeds. The quail come around constantly and sing such a pleasant natural song, like tuning in the radio to the songs that were here thirty thousand years ago, even before man arrived (which was thought to be about 11,000 years ago.) In the Fall of 2007, I took a class in Anthropology, the Archeology of the Pacific Northwest, which was very interesting. (And I exceeded my expectations for grade.) And I studied about the Bering Land Bridge, etc., and one concept in particular I wrote a paper on "Interactive Spheres." This describes how cultures divided by hundreds and thousands of miles can and did influence each other in those early days of pre-history. This concept can be used in other geographic regions to identify how disparate groups of people shared ideas, have similar words in their languages, used similar tools, valued similar "grave goods" and developed similar beliefs even though thousands of miles apart.
Turning the page:
Scrub Oak
I have been confused by the scrub oak
of all things.
They have been so encumbered
apparently
With a ragged coat of old brown leaves
which remains. Even now
as the pale, chartreuse
beginnings of Spring vegetation
is pleasantly returning to them,
I am forced
involuntarily
to compare this to my own character.
I.J. Hall
April 10, 2004
Moss
The moss lies softly on the scrub oak
Warming and protecting the willing branches,
but does not like the fir.
The affinity the oak shares satisfies the mosses' needs
more than do the handsome firs,
Yet each of these sturdy trees wears their finest
And gives solace with their unique beauty.
I.J. Hall, February 28, 2004, Eugene, OR.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Wages of Love
Why does love charge such high wages?
It scorns those who choose it.
It tempts those who from wisdom deny it
and in wisdom seek a substitute
for their claim is no less vain
than the poorest tenant to the land.
Charging money would not hurt more
than the pain filled purse it takes.
Love comes at the most awkward times,
even between two otherwise committed.
It touches the weakest hearts first
then insinuates itself ruthlessly
into even the stoutest breast.
The fluted sounds of Pan echo in the wind
And tempt me to dance and sing
Even when my mind bares the burden of despair.
No matter how artfully I avoid it,
a cunning stealth cloaks its master
who releases the tyrant ten times again
in order to claim its rent, and I
the victim, hapless creature, dumbly succumb.
While the spell is over my eyes
I am content and lazy with my tears.
But when cruel fortune claims its due,
I cry and ache like now
with my throat in its grip, strangling.
These tears are too dry to pay the cost.
I fail to make the bail against my captors.
This constricted tongue adds nothing
except to gag my shrunken, sallow soul.
Yet I fancy that trying to love again
Is somehow a noble effort?
But in truth it is a savage simplicity,
a blind instinct that compels me forward
into the jaws of death.
Courageous imbecile, unruly heart
no better, no more noble than my rooster
who would wake the world at 5:30 AM
if he could.
What a wicked diet this truth.
Its nourishment is a phantom.
These calories deposit in ugly heaps
yet fail to mask the wounds of love.
What a dismal solitude survives
this hoary ordeal of requited love gone bad.
The only respite is the darkness
that shrouds my loneliness,
and numbs my careless passion
with a sleep that brings no pleasure.
Cruel fate, be damned I say.
Would I be a happier person now
had I never contracted with this wicked sorcerer?
Is one who lies innocent of these ecstasies
all the better, not paying with a tormented spirit?
Or is this tax charged the same for all?
But since I am captured by it,
I am damned in love or out.
If thus, I am better off damned in love.
End
It scorns those who choose it.
It tempts those who from wisdom deny it
and in wisdom seek a substitute
for their claim is no less vain
than the poorest tenant to the land.
Charging money would not hurt more
than the pain filled purse it takes.
Love comes at the most awkward times,
even between two otherwise committed.
It touches the weakest hearts first
then insinuates itself ruthlessly
into even the stoutest breast.
The fluted sounds of Pan echo in the wind
And tempt me to dance and sing
Even when my mind bares the burden of despair.
No matter how artfully I avoid it,
a cunning stealth cloaks its master
who releases the tyrant ten times again
in order to claim its rent, and I
the victim, hapless creature, dumbly succumb.
While the spell is over my eyes
I am content and lazy with my tears.
But when cruel fortune claims its due,
I cry and ache like now
with my throat in its grip, strangling.
These tears are too dry to pay the cost.
I fail to make the bail against my captors.
This constricted tongue adds nothing
except to gag my shrunken, sallow soul.
Yet I fancy that trying to love again
Is somehow a noble effort?
But in truth it is a savage simplicity,
a blind instinct that compels me forward
into the jaws of death.
Courageous imbecile, unruly heart
no better, no more noble than my rooster
who would wake the world at 5:30 AM
if he could.
What a wicked diet this truth.
Its nourishment is a phantom.
These calories deposit in ugly heaps
yet fail to mask the wounds of love.
What a dismal solitude survives
this hoary ordeal of requited love gone bad.
The only respite is the darkness
that shrouds my loneliness,
and numbs my careless passion
with a sleep that brings no pleasure.
Cruel fate, be damned I say.
Would I be a happier person now
had I never contracted with this wicked sorcerer?
Is one who lies innocent of these ecstasies
all the better, not paying with a tormented spirit?
Or is this tax charged the same for all?
But since I am captured by it,
I am damned in love or out.
If thus, I am better off damned in love.
End
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Teaching - Special Day
It is not so special just to teach in an elementary school, but to teach special ed is a very different experience. The kids are just so physically normal for 4th or 5th grades, and you show them some simple words and they can't sound them out or say them -- should, there, even-- and to add they must count, there is no place in their minds to just put two numbers together. Its hard to understand their limitations, but easy to reward their effort with praise.
Contrast that to Tuesday when I taught industrial drafting, and the kids were struggling with their own motivation to just do their work and study even though they had been given average or better intelligences, and as a result they were falling behind without even knowing it.
Wednesday evening I went to a meditation group at the UU church, and without sharing many words with those people, it was possible to sense a common spirit and make a bond of mutual seriousness and Right Thought.
The elements of this photo may seem mysterious to someone who doesn't know what is behind the icons and the metaphorical nature of the symbols. These are teaching aids and reminders for those who recognize the flowers as symbol of the beauty and impermanence of life and the teachings. The other symbols are likewise "mundane" once you understand them, but once you accept their teachings they become special again. This is a Taoist (Chinese) shrine we encountered in Australia. And I understand that Taoism was at least in part derived from the teachings of very early Buddhist traditions, with such similarities as the tao being related to the concept of "emptiness" in Buddhism.
Contrast that to Tuesday when I taught industrial drafting, and the kids were struggling with their own motivation to just do their work and study even though they had been given average or better intelligences, and as a result they were falling behind without even knowing it.
Wednesday evening I went to a meditation group at the UU church, and without sharing many words with those people, it was possible to sense a common spirit and make a bond of mutual seriousness and Right Thought.
The elements of this photo may seem mysterious to someone who doesn't know what is behind the icons and the metaphorical nature of the symbols. These are teaching aids and reminders for those who recognize the flowers as symbol of the beauty and impermanence of life and the teachings. The other symbols are likewise "mundane" once you understand them, but once you accept their teachings they become special again. This is a Taoist (Chinese) shrine we encountered in Australia. And I understand that Taoism was at least in part derived from the teachings of very early Buddhist traditions, with such similarities as the tao being related to the concept of "emptiness" in Buddhism.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Hummingbird Saga
A hummingbird arrived when I was standing
Near a Boojum tree
Which had a vine displaying long red flowers.
The bird hovered, motionless, wearing chartreuse plumage
It objected to my presence so near its food
I had no time to move.
I heard nature’s voice.
A subtle, soundless concept fluttering, but unmistakable.
“I need your love. Stay! Eat and share life’s pleasures.”
The bird’s wingless flight is a study in irony.
Such a huge, invisible effort is so graceful, poised.
Contrast the Boojum, erect, inglorious, awkward.
When we first met you invited my passion.
You spoke with kindness
I watched dumbfounded, clumsily,
I was caught in time.
The tassel on the Boojum, obtuse, graceless yet fragile
Heckled my unseemly posture.
Too enthralled to move I obstructed nature’s goal.
At first the bird whispered, “Will you love me?”
I was too eager, too close.
Beauty at first confuses those upon whom it shines.
There are other birds whose flight is patient.
Their songs are urgent,
Their colors less entrancing.
These fail to inspire.
“Can I meet you again? Fly to me softly.
Wait, prove nature’s voice. Or,
Prove the impossibility.
Bring meaning to my life.
Stay, accept the red flower.
We’ll solve the paradox.”
“No, I don’t trust you.
We cannot yet unite but kindred spirit be blessed.”
Why is life so cruel?
So close to sweetness, so divided by obstacles;
Teasing me with beauty then isolating me as victim?
I stumbled back.
“I only happened here. My position will improve.
Ignore the Boojum, see the vine,
Accept me and this red flower.”
The bird danced in brilliance.
“You have hurt me.”
A wary eye met mine.
“You are not true,”
She sang before fairness could appeal.
“Witness the integrity of my Soul!”
“No. I am too careful,”
The bird chided
Inspiring a traumatic sadness.
My heart surged to correct, but She was gone.
I was alone with my awkwardness.
When love speaks so soon any movement to accept
Diminishes nature’s charm.
Can love hover longer?
Or is this emotion fleeting?
“The Boojum is irrelevant.
Share my sweet red flower,” I entreated.
“Accept the possibility!” I cried to no one.
The vine abhors the Boojum tree.
Its fine leaves and red flowers slowly argue against reality.
Against the thorns of the bush, I make my empty case.
How can my presence cause so much hurt?
Careless is worse than clumsy.
Can innocence ever make amends?
I live to kiss the hummingbird.~
See reference, a poem by Lewis Carroll, "The Hunting of the Snark".
Near a Boojum tree
Which had a vine displaying long red flowers.
The bird hovered, motionless, wearing chartreuse plumage
It objected to my presence so near its food
I had no time to move.
I heard nature’s voice.
A subtle, soundless concept fluttering, but unmistakable.
“I need your love. Stay! Eat and share life’s pleasures.”
The bird’s wingless flight is a study in irony.
Such a huge, invisible effort is so graceful, poised.
Contrast the Boojum, erect, inglorious, awkward.
When we first met you invited my passion.
You spoke with kindness
I watched dumbfounded, clumsily,
I was caught in time.
The tassel on the Boojum, obtuse, graceless yet fragile
Heckled my unseemly posture.
Too enthralled to move I obstructed nature’s goal.
At first the bird whispered, “Will you love me?”
I was too eager, too close.
Beauty at first confuses those upon whom it shines.
There are other birds whose flight is patient.
Their songs are urgent,
Their colors less entrancing.
These fail to inspire.
“Can I meet you again? Fly to me softly.
Wait, prove nature’s voice. Or,
Prove the impossibility.
Bring meaning to my life.
Stay, accept the red flower.
We’ll solve the paradox.”
“No, I don’t trust you.
We cannot yet unite but kindred spirit be blessed.”
Why is life so cruel?
So close to sweetness, so divided by obstacles;
Teasing me with beauty then isolating me as victim?
I stumbled back.
“I only happened here. My position will improve.
Ignore the Boojum, see the vine,
Accept me and this red flower.”
The bird danced in brilliance.
“You have hurt me.”
A wary eye met mine.
“You are not true,”
She sang before fairness could appeal.
“Witness the integrity of my Soul!”
“No. I am too careful,”
The bird chided
Inspiring a traumatic sadness.
My heart surged to correct, but She was gone.
I was alone with my awkwardness.
When love speaks so soon any movement to accept
Diminishes nature’s charm.
Can love hover longer?
Or is this emotion fleeting?
“The Boojum is irrelevant.
Share my sweet red flower,” I entreated.
“Accept the possibility!” I cried to no one.
The vine abhors the Boojum tree.
Its fine leaves and red flowers slowly argue against reality.
Against the thorns of the bush, I make my empty case.
How can my presence cause so much hurt?
Careless is worse than clumsy.
Can innocence ever make amends?
I live to kiss the hummingbird.~
See reference, a poem by Lewis Carroll, "The Hunting of the Snark".
Monday, September 8, 2008
Why Buddhism?
I have been roughly acquainted with Buddhism since I was 20 years old, now more than 40 years. Initially I was put off by the mysticism, "reincarnation" or other misunderstandings of Buddhism. Most of the mystery I found previously in Buddhism was apparently due to the foreign language issue, because the teachings generally are quite frank, practical and transparent. There are mysterious teachings in each of the most active traditions, but these can either be accepted or viewed as aesthetic expressions of the mysteries inherent in life and human nature. The esoteric practices are cosmological traditions that have grown up without the benefit of modern 20th century scientific discoveries (as with the development of Christianity.) The art, the icons, the symbolism of Buddhism, as well as for any religious tradition, can appear mysterious. However, these human creations are most often devices to help devotees remember and incorporate the teachings into their lives. Art can be viewed as another kind of language, when we know the meanings the mysterious nature usually disappears. Now after having done a general study and prepared these lessons [having written the Buddhist Sutras,] I have an heightened appreciation for the spirituality of the people in Southern Asia and their practice of the religion of Buddhism. More importantly, I understand the benefit that can accrue to those schooled in Western philosophy, or Christianity of any stripe of religion, from following this course of study.
The goal of Buddhist dharma – Teachings -- as well as the Buddhist Sutras, is to make a transformation in the mind of the participants and thus have a significant and positive impact on each person’s life. “There is, of course, an enormous diversity within Buddhism and no fixed standard of orthodoxy. Nevertheless, even differing conceptions of the authentic tradition – and each school has some notion of orthodoxy – reveal a common ground of discussion.” (de Bary, pg. i) Thus there is some flexibility about what one can accept as part of a Buddhist practice, and I take from the different traditions according to what seems consistent in several different teachings, and what seems most authentic for my personal needs.
It is important to emphasize that the practice beyond any course of study is the essential ingredient of Buddhist training. “There are both direct and indirect ways of transforming the mind. Meditation is the most direct method, because in meditation the mind changes itself. But many other activities can have a positive, even transforming, effect through less direct means: friendship, Right Livelihood, and [participation in] the arts can all be seen as practices in this sense…” (Vishvapani, pg. 45) Furthermore it is possible to rigorously test one’s self-discipline, growth in awareness, development of compassion, ethical choices, and non-attachment when one engages in meaningful activities with family and friends.
“…The mind is always moving, always processing new ideas, new perceptions, and new sensations. That’s its job. Meditation is about learning to work with the mind as it is, not about trying to force it into some sort of Buddhist straitjacket.” (Mingyur, pg. 196)
One central purpose of any religion is to improve the lives of the adherents by influencing and being a catalyst for change. This is often considered the essence of Buddhism (at least for Theravada Buddhism) and this is an essential step toward enlightenment. The virtue of abiding by moral principles and the discussion of ethical requirements of Buddhism were traditionally a central focus of Buddha’s lessons. I try to make improvements in my life, not everyone sees that of course. ;-)But moral conduct and rules of the Sangha (group of adherents) are outlined and discussed with this as a goal.
The goal of Buddhist dharma – Teachings -- as well as the Buddhist Sutras, is to make a transformation in the mind of the participants and thus have a significant and positive impact on each person’s life. “There is, of course, an enormous diversity within Buddhism and no fixed standard of orthodoxy. Nevertheless, even differing conceptions of the authentic tradition – and each school has some notion of orthodoxy – reveal a common ground of discussion.” (de Bary, pg. i) Thus there is some flexibility about what one can accept as part of a Buddhist practice, and I take from the different traditions according to what seems consistent in several different teachings, and what seems most authentic for my personal needs.
It is important to emphasize that the practice beyond any course of study is the essential ingredient of Buddhist training. “There are both direct and indirect ways of transforming the mind. Meditation is the most direct method, because in meditation the mind changes itself. But many other activities can have a positive, even transforming, effect through less direct means: friendship, Right Livelihood, and [participation in] the arts can all be seen as practices in this sense…” (Vishvapani, pg. 45) Furthermore it is possible to rigorously test one’s self-discipline, growth in awareness, development of compassion, ethical choices, and non-attachment when one engages in meaningful activities with family and friends.
“…The mind is always moving, always processing new ideas, new perceptions, and new sensations. That’s its job. Meditation is about learning to work with the mind as it is, not about trying to force it into some sort of Buddhist straitjacket.” (Mingyur, pg. 196)
One central purpose of any religion is to improve the lives of the adherents by influencing and being a catalyst for change. This is often considered the essence of Buddhism (at least for Theravada Buddhism) and this is an essential step toward enlightenment. The virtue of abiding by moral principles and the discussion of ethical requirements of Buddhism were traditionally a central focus of Buddha’s lessons. I try to make improvements in my life, not everyone sees that of course. ;-)But moral conduct and rules of the Sangha (group of adherents) are outlined and discussed with this as a goal.
Ciphers in Nature
I see a bubble of unknown origin
spreading a perfect wave
as a circle that grows on Pond’s surface
every now and then today.
Perhaps a fish
bumping against the glassy surface.
I read these as ciphers
telling me of my pleasure being here
which I presume to understand by intuition.
These whisper calmly in the silence, and
I feel this as the absence of emotion
Between the bird calls and tics of leaves
from insects pursuing their special habits.
I don’t see the waves of those sounds
but scientifically I know these touch my ears.
All these harbingers of pleasure
soothe my weariness as did the pheasant
that frantically emerged--
disturbed by my noisy feet--
and flew gracefully and loudly
across the field. Taking with him
the few light burdens of my life
leaving me careless and if not content
at least receptive to be so.
I can’t hear my heart beating,
I see it in the movement of my foot
when my legs are crossed
teetering, ticking rhythmically
showing the cadence of my life.
I am not the only one
who reads these circles and tics.
There is a kingfisher circling
ready for his dinner
-- as am I.
I.J. Hall, September 20, 2004
spreading a perfect wave
as a circle that grows on Pond’s surface
every now and then today.
Perhaps a fish
bumping against the glassy surface.
I read these as ciphers
telling me of my pleasure being here
which I presume to understand by intuition.
These whisper calmly in the silence, and
I feel this as the absence of emotion
Between the bird calls and tics of leaves
from insects pursuing their special habits.
I don’t see the waves of those sounds
but scientifically I know these touch my ears.
All these harbingers of pleasure
soothe my weariness as did the pheasant
that frantically emerged--
disturbed by my noisy feet--
and flew gracefully and loudly
across the field. Taking with him
the few light burdens of my life
leaving me careless and if not content
at least receptive to be so.
I can’t hear my heart beating,
I see it in the movement of my foot
when my legs are crossed
teetering, ticking rhythmically
showing the cadence of my life.
I am not the only one
who reads these circles and tics.
There is a kingfisher circling
ready for his dinner
-- as am I.
I.J. Hall, September 20, 2004
A Week (or Two) in Review
Most recently: I am assigned to work half day today at Pullman High School in the shop class of some sort. This is my first job here and first teaching gig in the State of Washington, and I am in a state of pleasure to be working and gainfully employed again. Vacations are great, but I seem to work harder during vacation than otherwise.
This morning (Monday) I had another one of those transitional experiences, when the Social Security office called me up at an appointed time and took my application for retirement benefits! so the third Wednesday in December I will receive a check for November, my first. I have lived this long, so I guess I can live that much longer.
I hope this isn't one of those situations where the appliance is guaranteed for three years and during the first month after the guarantee expires, it goes broken.
On Sunday we went to a picnic for the math department people and I spoke to some of the Chinese students, and one Korean. They are an interesting group, each very unique from the next.
Has anybody played that new yard-game, ladder ball? Like tossing boa's at a three step ladder and keeping score and like who gets to 21 first wins. It's not as easy as it looks. My first attempts were not so successful.
Unitarian church sermon on Sunday was appropriately about security, and there has been a dramatic discussion about security vis-a-vis blogging around this family. I have decided to post only personal items for myself, and not identify anyone else, and have no security whatsoever, because I don't think I should need it. I will not post other addresses to my links either, but I will encourage comments and discussion. I don't believe the exposure or vulnerability I have is of any consequence to me or anyone else, but maybe that feeling is because I am a white male in the dominate cultural power group and I can swagger around anywhere I want to go without anyone messing with me or else. Of course that's not true, I'm just teasing.
Saturday, we went to the Rodeo and saw live action of roping and saddle bronc riding and thoroughly enjoyed all of that. I never wanted to be a rodeo guy, I guess that was past my threshold of safety and exceeds my limit for risk taking. We can measure our risk aversion by looking back on our lives and seeing what we did and then judge what we might do in the future, but of course I might begin to take more risks, but I doubt that riding in a rodeo will be on that list ever.
One thing my Buddhist training has taught me is not to crave thrills, or entertainment from which I might derive adrenalin rushes etc. Life is too thrilling without trying to find additional gratuitous thrills or dangers.
Last week was very secure, moving boxes around and moving in and for example, we finally allowed Isaac to go outside without a personal chaperon and he came back very nicely. We won't let him out at night, however, for security reasons. The local gendarme, one of our neighbors is a policeman, told us his cat was attacked by a coyote just two houses away from us, and that seems like a rather unfriendly risk, so Isaac will have to stay in at nights. He likes to think about hunting quail which, along with other various species of birds, we have in great abundance.
The weather is very pleasant fall weather, no frost yet.
This morning (Monday) I had another one of those transitional experiences, when the Social Security office called me up at an appointed time and took my application for retirement benefits! so the third Wednesday in December I will receive a check for November, my first. I have lived this long, so I guess I can live that much longer.
I hope this isn't one of those situations where the appliance is guaranteed for three years and during the first month after the guarantee expires, it goes broken.
On Sunday we went to a picnic for the math department people and I spoke to some of the Chinese students, and one Korean. They are an interesting group, each very unique from the next.
Has anybody played that new yard-game, ladder ball? Like tossing boa's at a three step ladder and keeping score and like who gets to 21 first wins. It's not as easy as it looks. My first attempts were not so successful.
Unitarian church sermon on Sunday was appropriately about security, and there has been a dramatic discussion about security vis-a-vis blogging around this family. I have decided to post only personal items for myself, and not identify anyone else, and have no security whatsoever, because I don't think I should need it. I will not post other addresses to my links either, but I will encourage comments and discussion. I don't believe the exposure or vulnerability I have is of any consequence to me or anyone else, but maybe that feeling is because I am a white male in the dominate cultural power group and I can swagger around anywhere I want to go without anyone messing with me or else. Of course that's not true, I'm just teasing.
Saturday, we went to the Rodeo and saw live action of roping and saddle bronc riding and thoroughly enjoyed all of that. I never wanted to be a rodeo guy, I guess that was past my threshold of safety and exceeds my limit for risk taking. We can measure our risk aversion by looking back on our lives and seeing what we did and then judge what we might do in the future, but of course I might begin to take more risks, but I doubt that riding in a rodeo will be on that list ever.
One thing my Buddhist training has taught me is not to crave thrills, or entertainment from which I might derive adrenalin rushes etc. Life is too thrilling without trying to find additional gratuitous thrills or dangers.
Last week was very secure, moving boxes around and moving in and for example, we finally allowed Isaac to go outside without a personal chaperon and he came back very nicely. We won't let him out at night, however, for security reasons. The local gendarme, one of our neighbors is a policeman, told us his cat was attacked by a coyote just two houses away from us, and that seems like a rather unfriendly risk, so Isaac will have to stay in at nights. He likes to think about hunting quail which, along with other various species of birds, we have in great abundance.
The weather is very pleasant fall weather, no frost yet.
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