From the darkness into the light

When I heard the news that Barack Hussein Obama had just been declared President-Elect of the United States of America, I was sitting on a bar stool at Uno's Grille in Swampscott, MA, next to a handsome brown-eyed stranger. I'd driven to Boston that night after arriving in the Hartford, CT airport after four days of volunteering for Obama in Virginia. A friend of mine from grad school had just been re-elected to the Massachusetts House of Representatives, and she was throwing a re-election party at Uno's. I drove the two hours to toast her and to watch the election news in friendly company.

Lori had since taken off to go home and be with her husband and kids as the election results rolled in, and I was swilling beers with the friendly Democrats at the bar. Kevin, the stranger beside me, was a cartographer, I'd learned. Making maps of the world seemed like an appropriate profession right now as it seemed like the whole world was shifting before our eyes. Everything was changing.

Like the rest of the country, and much of the world, I was overcome with emotion at the news. Forty-five years ago Martin Luther King had delivered his "I Have a Dream" speech, and here, now, all these years later, a man of mixed Caucasian and African descent stood before us, judged not by the color of his skin but by the content of his character as he was decisively elected the leader of the free world.

As the news rolled on, and as he delivered his speech, I couldn't stop crying. Kevin, my friendly neighboring cartographer, rubbed my back and told me how sweet it was that I was crying. It wasn't intentional, it wasn't planned, I just felt the waves of change coming, the magnitude of this historic moment, and what it could mean for the world. As a grad school friend of mine from Germany later expressed it, "The U.S. is moving from the darkness into the light."

From the darkness into the light. Is that what the world felt and responded to? The news showed crowds cheering in Africa, in Kenya where Obama's father was from, in Europe and South America and Central America and Asia. Everyone seemed to recognize that something amazing was happening.

The defeated candidate was gracious. The current sitting president was gracious. Everyone seemed to rise to the occasion in deference to this leader who clearly had inspired the people of the U.S. - enough to get out and vote in record numbers, enough to motivate thousands to register to vote for the first time.

Out of the darkness into the light. What is it about this man? It's more than the color of his skin or the fact that electing an African American man to this post is so historic. It's more about the light that shines from within him, his willingness to stand up and lead in tough times, and his ability to inspire others, to empower the people around him so that they feel they have a voice again.

The exultation in the room and around the world was palpable. For me it symbolized something more too, how we all seek in our lives to move from the darkness into the light, how we all want to stand for what we believe, believe that change is possible, and move in that direction. Too often in our own lives it can be easy to get bogged down in the day-to-day minutiae of life, and to feel as though in the broader strokes of our lives, the change and dreams we hope for may not all be realized in this lifetime. And yet we wake up each day to keep trying, to find out what is possible by being in action on our dreams.

When the nation collectively unites to stand for change, and to stand for what is possible, how amazing is that? How can we individually get discouraged when we are standing for all people, when love is what we are standing for?

I remain amazed and grateful to be alive during these historic times, and excited to see what changes are coming.

The world is on fire

"Fire is important to this community because the tiny seeds of the giant sequoia must fall on partially burned or bare mineral soil to germinate successfully."
~ http://www.fire.ca.gov

The scene was surreal, like something out of an action adventure movie. Standing on the cliffs above Santa Barbara, 1,000 feet up, we watched the flames shooting up into the air on a ridge just a few miles away. Bright orange, they licked at the smoke-filled sky, rising well above the tree-line.

The flames must’ve been 20 to 30 feet high. Smoke billowed to the left, following the direction of the wind, yellow smoke closest to the fire, gray and brown as it spread out, white like cumulus clouds as the edges as it dispersed.

We watched the helicopter swoop overhead, flying back and forth from the pond at the ranch where we were staying to refill a giant hanging basket with water, which turned to instant steam when it was dumped over the flames.

We were being evacuated from the ranch right in the middle of a six-day long silent meditation and yoga retreat. “Include this, too, in your practice,” my teacher, a long-time Buddhist practitioner, instructed us as we posed in lotus or yoga asanas on our mats, while the smoke filled the air just miles from where our studio sat, perched above the city.

This was not the first time I’d had to include fire in my practice of growing and evolving and walking through this life. Just three months beforehand, I’d gotten a phone call from my former next-door neighbors while enjoying a Mediterranean meal of lentils and veggies in a restaurant in San Francisco, where I lived at the time.

“Have you heard the news?” my neighbor John asked. John and his wife Joyce used to live next door to me in Troy, New York, and I still owned the home adjacent to theirs.

“No,” I said.

“Your house is on fire,” he said.

Three thousand miles away, I felt powerless to do much of anything, and so had to trust that everyone back in that community would handle it, that the capable fire fighters would put the fire out in time to save our house, that everyone would be okay.

Luckily, the fire crew did get there in time to save the first floor of our house, although the second floor kitchen was gutted and the walls throughout the second floor were streaked gray with smoke. Our tenants, a young couple with a baby, had put cooking oil on the stove, and then fallen asleep, accidentally starting a grease fire. Fortunately they were fine, if shaken up by the experience.

They set our house on fire literally two days after my ex-husband and I had completed our divorce proceedings, with the sale of the house as the last item on the checklist to dissolve our former financial partnership. I was, needless to say, somewhat shell-shocked, and could only shake my head and wonder at whatever greater powers are guiding the course of events.

God must have some kind of sense of humor, I thought, considering that this divorce had dragged on for three years, and that once it was complete, the fire happened 48 hours later. What’s the message here? I thought. What is the universe calling on me to learn? I’m a good person - Where the hell am I going wrong? Of course, rationally I knew that I wasn’t being singled out for punishment, that this wasn’t about anything being “wrong.” Everything happens for a reason, I believe this, and I trusted that the reason for this would become clear with time. Yet it seemed just absurd for this to happen now – of all things, a fire!

Interestingly, fire for me has always been a compelling metaphor and I’d even chosen, years before, the phoenix rising as my own personal mythological symbol. The phoenix is a symbol of resurrection, the bird of legend that would arise from the ashes after incinerating – and this metaphor had served me at an earlier time in my life when my world had collapsed, and I felt as though I was starting from scratch.

I’d also chosen to live in cities that had burned to the ground and been resurrected – Troy, New York which suffered through the great fire of 1862, when more than 500 buildings were destroyed, and San Francisco, which had been savaged by the earthquake and fire of 1906. Both cities had been rebuilt, with even more grandeur than before. I had rebuilt my life and was thriving. Yet now I was starting to question the wisdom of aligning myself with the metaphor of the phoenix, since I seemed to be manifesting fires all around me! What did I need to burn away? What, I wondered, needs to be recreated in my life?

Who really knows the “why” of why anything happens in our lives, yet I felt there was some symbolism here around me burning away old, restricting beliefs in my life, and recreating myself again, without limits. I’m someone who despite my worldly successes and achievements over the years − as a Harvard and Princeton educated strategic planning and governmental consultant, a writer, a community leader who had worked on countless urban revitalization projects in Troy, as a dancer, a loving wife to my ex-husband, a good friend, a devoted daughter − despite all of this I’d often questioned my own worth and sabotaged myself sometimes, in work, life, relationships. Something in my mind, some old pattern of thinking, wasn’t allowing me to fully live all of my life and be all the beauty, love and joy I know I am inside.

The fires seemed as good a time as any to take stock of what had held me back in life previously, and to generate a new life and vision for myself. I decided that it is time for me to believe fully in all the possibilities for my life, in love, work and general adventures. And to know that no fire, no loss of material possessions or even love lost, could take away from who I am inside, the burning passion for life at the core of me, or who I am in this world, which is a bright light.

Now, about the only fire I want to deal with is that of the fire in my belly when I’m taking on a project that excites me, and the fire I feel when I’m wild for a man who tantalizes me. There was a man once in my life whose presence was like a five-alarm fire from the day I met him, just constant heat and light and burning excitement. I like that kind of heat, would happily pour gasoline on the flames to fan the fire. The rest I feel ready to leave behind.

I think I’ll choose a new metaphor, then – the hummingbird perhaps which symbolizes resurrection, optimism, sweetness, a messenger and “stopper of time.” Or the deer, which can symbolize “love, gentleness, kindness, gracefulness, sensitivity, purity of purpose, walking in the light, meditation, longevity, wealth” – all lovely qualities to have in my life!

That said, I have to be grateful for the lessons of the fires. The Santa Barbara fire provided me with the gift of knowing that I could remain peaceful and grounded despite the challenging conditions that were arising. The house fire brought me back to New York to work on renovations, bringing me closer again to family and old friends in a tight-knit community that I lived in and loved for seven years of my life.

In times like this, I also remind myself that the California wildfires are actually a necessary part of the natural process, that the giant sequoia trees need the fire and ash for their seeds to germinate in the soil. I’m curious to see what will grow up next in my life, from the ashes of the fires.

© Lisa Powell Graham, July 2008

The monk, the caterpillar, and me...

"There is only one question: how to love this world."
~ Mary Oliver, from her poem "Spring"

The sun shone through the 300-foot tall trees of the Enchanted Forest, bright like a North Star above me, shining on me like a benediction through the giant redwood trees. I was curled up in a hammock strung between two redwoods, napping between yoga sessions at the Land of the Medicine Buddha in Santa Cruz, CA where I'd headed for a four day yoga and meditation retreat.

Two of those four days were spent in silence. This was my fourth silent yoga and meditation retreat with my teacher, Dina Amsterdam, who is like a forest sprite herself, lanky and long-limbed, slim and dark and beautiful in an exotic Buddhist-Jewish way.

The retreats follow a certain pattern: arrive in the evening, join the group for dinner followed by an opening circle and an evening meditation, and awake the next day into silence. The practice for the subsequent two days is yoga, meditation and our own time to do as we wish, all of it in silence.

The idea is to help us move into present moment awareness and peace, which can be easier said than done in our rush-rush-rush, blackberry-bluetooth-Ipod-TVO, sensory-overload kind of world. Yet I believe most of us are stumbling and falling our way toward enlightenment in this lifetime, sloooowly evolving (at least I know my own path has not been smooth, linear, or fast!).

Talking about the path toward enlightenment, Dina gave the analogy of moving one grain of sand at a time from a pile which represents the "unconscious," unawakened part of ourselves, into another pile that represents the enlightened being in us. She said that in our regular lives we generally move one grain of sand at a time from one pile to another, in a painstakingly slow progression, grain of sand by grain of sand, as we gradually awaken in this lifetime to our own divine nature.

Dina said her teacher says that a retreat is like a chance to take a whole scoop of sand and pour it into the "enlightened" pile! We are learning tools to help us stay "awake," to live our purpose in this world.

Time away from the chaos of the world to work on our "awakening" is such a gift. A true blessing. The blessings were manifold this time at the Land of the Medicine Buddha. The grounds were filled with monks in their saffron and mustard robes, and I'd often cross paths with a shaven head or two as I walked in the woods, or walked to the dining hall. To respect my vow of silence, I'd simply bow with hands in prayer position - Namaste. I honor the divine in you.

The monks were not in silence this time, but there to receive a Highest Yogic Tantra initiation from the Venerable Choden Rinpoche, a Tibetan lama born in 1933 who was one of the teachers/guides of the Dalai Lama. Needless to say, a great man and spirit...

As ordinary yogis who had not received the Highest Yogic Tantra yet, we were not allowed to sit in on the ceremony, but I got to bow down to him, touch his vehicle (I know, that sounds almost kinky, but I mean it quite literally - I touched his car, which bore the message: "May anyone who sees, touches, remembers, talks or dreams about this car achieve everlasting happiness and have compassion for all living beings"), and do a sitting meditation/prayer in the hall where he was teaching, thus taking the energy into me... All of it, a blessing.

The days were filled with yoga, meditation, prayer, journaling, walking the forest paths, praying in the temples, observing with awe and delight the simple wonders of spring... Lupines and lobelia with their blue and purple splendor, bluejays, butterflies fluttering around blossoms, even the bright banana slugs in the forest, which look like slices of mango underfoot, only they are moving, shining, glistening, with two slimy antenna reaching out to the world... All of it, beautiful, fascinating.

I've been on some silent retreats in the past where the lessons and epiphanies seemed big and dramatic. This retreat was peaceful, restful, lovely, and more simple. No giant lessons descending from the heavens, no opening in the clouds, no deep pain or out-of-body bliss experiences. Simply this message, over and over, which was inscribed on a bench in the forest: "The path is under your feet."

I'd come into the retreat with some questions in mind about love, work, home... I am going through some transitions in my life, all positive, and looking for "divine guidance" to lead me... The message this time was simple. Keep walking. Trust your heart. One step at a time. The path is under your feet...

Walking the forest path on the last day, I was stopped by a monk who asked me "Do you know what time it is?" I had to keep my vow of silence so shook my head no, but then remembered my cell phone was in my pocket (I was using it as a watch!). I took it out and showed him the time and we bowed to one another.

We passed each other again on my way out of the forest, and bowed in silence and respect. This, too, felt like a blessing. I'd been watching my steps, careful of where my foot falls, because I'd noticed the black, white and gold caterpillars that were on the path, inching along, dozens of them, scattered across the earth, one every few feet. Some had been squished already by another hiker, and in my "retreat state" I was feeling an extra high level of compassion for these creatures, wanting to be careful of them, and also to just walk lightly on the earth in general.

Reverence for all beings, for all life, seemed to be another message on this retreat, or rather a reminder. The monk and the caterpillar, equally important, one bowing to me, one below me, one a spiritual guide, one a lesson - to walk lightly on the earth. What is more important? Who can say?

To all creatures of the earth, I say, Namaste, and give thanks for the blessing of a time away like this! I will end with a poem by Hafiz... My wonderful teacher, Dina, conducted a "poetry hour" Saturday night when we came out of the silence, reading poems by Hafiz, Rumi, Mary Oliver. If you have not spent time in the company of Hafiz, 14th century Sufi master poet, I suggest you do sometime! He is funny, wise and wonderful... His poems make me laugh and touch my heart.

May this poem help you to feel deep compassion for all beings - which is what it does for me.

Blessings, peace, love, light!

Lisa

It Felt Love

How
Did the rose
Ever open its heart

And give to this world
All its
Beauty?

It felt the encouragement of light
Against its
Being,

Otherwise,
We all remain

Too

Frightened.

by Hafiz

Water into wine, Argentina-style...

After three weeks in Argentina, my veins are flowing with red wine. Vino tinto. Vino tinto. Y mas vino tinto.

With bottles of fine wine starting at 20 pesos (approximately $6 US) or less, a father with a sommelier's instincts for the best in wine, and a visit to Argentina's wine country, the sweet nectar of crushed grapes and tannins has replaced my red blood cells. I am a walking glass of Malbec.

I am filled with sweetness too because everything here is topped or filled with dulce de leche. Alfajores cookies, smothered in chocolate, ice cream, medialuna breakfast croissants. Everything goes better with dulce de leche, the thick caramel that I eat by the spoonful sometimes (only in Argentina!). My normally healthy diet of veggies, grains, fish and beans has gone to hell here, temporarily.

I - the ovalactopescatarian - even eat a bite of filet mignon one night after my sister raved in ecstasy about her meat. Argentina is famous for its steak, a beef-eater's paradise. This isn't one of the highlights of the country for a veggie like me, but it makes my father, sister and mom happy as they dine on barbecued pig, ribs and goat. The flesh is succulent, they tell me. Tasty. Delicious. I trust them, skip it, and happily eat more roasted vegetables, pasta, empanadas.

Of course, there is more to Argentina than the food and wine. Mountains. Rivers. Hot-blooded Latin men. Tango. Charming art deco neighborhoods in famous Buenos Aires. Friendly people everywhere who kiss you on both cheeks in greeting, even when you first meet them. Argentina is literally and figuratively warm. We roast in the 95 degree heat, and warm to the gestures and love of friends.

And we bask in the pleasures of a trip like this... We started the week in Rosario, where my sister Carrie and her husband Pablo live about three to six months out of the year. Rosario is the third largest city in Argentina, and is rapidly gaining a reputation as being one of the most enchanting cities to visit in South America.

Famous for its river, historic denizens (Che Guavara is originally from Rosario), and the beauty of its women, Rosarinos also claim that their ice cream is superior to that of Buenos Aires. We do an informal taste test in both cities, and I have to say that my family agrees with this assessment.

The first few days were a whirlwind of family, dining, shopping and holiday celebrations. We arrived the day after Christmas and met up with Pablo's family to toast the holiday season. This mean lots of dinners at Pablo's father's restaurant, where a plate of meat as big as my torso was served. Literally these ribs had to be 2 feet long and 1 across. We cooked asado (Argentinian barbecue) often in Pablo's backyard, and cooled off from the high temperatures by the pool.

New Year's Eve was another good excuse to throw a barbecue. Carrie, Pablo, my parents, my sister Margaret and I gathered with Pablo's brother Mariano, his beautiful Portuguese girlfriend Bea, and Pablo's mom, Cristina.

My mom and Margaret had prepared two big pots full of vegetables roasted with garlic and herbs, a swiss chard and swiss cheese quiche. Bea made a carrot and squash puree. Mariano tended to the meat on the grill for hours, salting it to keep it juicy and then slowly roasting it over the coals. We cracked open multiple bottles of red and white wine. At midnight everyone toasted and kissed.

Then the fireworks started overhead - red and green and white, bursting open in the sky above. We watched and drank and toasted and marveled at all being here together in the Argentina summertime in January. At 3 a.m. it was time to head out to the New Year's parties that last all night long.

This year I skipped the festivities, staying in the yard to hang with Carrie and Pablo, while Mariano, Bea and my sister Margaret headed out. Margaret partied until 10 a.m. and despite being covered with mosquito bites from the outdoor party at a country club was thrilled with the attention from all the Argentinian men. It's good to be a single American woman in Argentina!

We moved on next to Buenos Aires, city of tango and Art Deco buildings and wrought iron balconies and European flair. I would only have one day there because my next stop was Rio Ceballos, a small mountainous town in the Cordoba region.

I was fortunate enough to land an interview with a Zen Buddhist master, Dr. Augusto Alcalde, who also practices Chinese medicine, indigenous herb healing, tai chi and qigong. An unusual Roshi, he also rides a motor bike, smokes a pipe and drinks gin. He invited me to spend a few days at his home dojo, the Rincon Cultural Center.

For two peaceful days, we talked about Buddhism, life, flow, breath, meditation. We ate pizza with olives on top and sipped mate. I meditated in his home dojo, and felt this boundless sense of connection to all beings, a boundless sense of gratitude for every moment in my life that had brought me to that exact moment. I felt lightness, happiness, peace.

From Cordoba, replenished and rejuvenated, I flew to our next stop - Mendoza, in the wine region. Thereupon commenced three days of feasting - including one of the best meals I'd ever had at a restaurant called A Zafran, which came highly recommended by a few guests from the Bay Area who were staying at our hotel.

Wine, wine, and more wine - fine red wines flowing - beet and goat cheese salad, the best gnocchi I've ever had with carmelized onions and veggies, sweet and tender and melting on the tongue delicious, a dulce de leche and coconut torta for dessert. Every bite was exquisite.

Luckily to offset all the eating we had some outdoor adventures as well. I went white water rafting for the first time with Carrie, Pablo and Margaret. We suited up on shore in banana yellow waterproof poofy pants and tops and helmets clicked in place under our chins. We looked ridiculous, like the astronauts who dropped out of NASA class or a yellow version of the Michelin Man.

Luckily those crazy outfits do actually keep you (somewhat!) dry and warm when the icy water splashes over you. And kept my pale skin from frying. We tackled Class 4 rapids on my first time out, which to me at least felt brave!

To stave off any anxiety about being swept into a hole in the water, I treated the whole experience as a meditation, reminding myself to surrender to the power of the river. The water was awesome, swirling and raging, and sometimes we'd ride wild waves of it. The view was spectacular - mountains and pure blue skies as far as the eye can see. I came off the boat feeling exhilarated, happy and slightly relieved to have not gone overboard.

Wine, water, and Buddhist wisdom... It was a magical three weeks. The water in my veins turned into wine. The wisdom of a Zen Buddhist master helped me to feel more grounded, and alive. The time with family was a gift and blessing.

Life, let's face it, is divine...