Category Archives: reflections

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walking the wards

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This porcelain lady has played the silent koto for at least three decades.  I had bought it for my mother as a birthday present; she collected “curios.”  At the last minute, I decided the potential of her rejecting the gift over some imperceptible flaw was too much for me to handle so I kept it.  An act of emotional cowardice perhaps but I’ve never really regretted it.  There is something about her intense and eternally focused dedication to her art that steadies me every time I see her on my shelf.  This morning, her hand fell off.  And I’ve been sitting here wondering how she’s going to manage.

Yesterday, I gathered up my jelly-like resolve and headed down to the hospital for a solo trip on the wards.  The Reverend Bosses are away although the newest Chaplain was hanging out.  We chatted for a while and I discovered how hard it is to convey Buddhism in bite-sized bytes to a non-Buddhist.  It highlighted the fact that in my professional circles, I don’t tend to share or have the opportunity to share about my spiritual practice.  Ironically, we talk tomes about mindfulness.  Mindfulness-this, mindfulness-that, and isn’t it all interesting about MB-everything.  But the topic of Buddhism and personal paths seem a conversational no-fly zone.

Armed with my trusty identity badge (I finally have a badge with a picture that doesn’t look like I’m in sore need of a bath!), I headed off into three floors of mental health units that made me regret not bringing bread crumbs so I could find my way back out.  I must have been quite the sight: ten steps forward, stop, look back, remember where I came from, don’t trust the directional arrows on the wall, proceed another ten steps.  Being directionally-challenged, I seriously dislike this form of not knowing.  Next time, I’m taking my Garmin wrist GPS.

In the last post, I mentioned that my goals for Chaplaincy have been trashed – more or less.  It’s one of those things where serendipity and desire met leading to a new path that landed me in a mental health hospital rather than the comfortably known environment of police and military service.  This is all new for me.  I had no illusions that my professional role as psychologist would allow any soft landings and I was/am determined to not reach for that set of robes.  But I didn’t count on the long-trained reflex that would have me dragging them into view.  In a conversation with a nurse, it didn’t take long for the ego to feel a need to establish credentials and haul out the sequined moon-and-stars, empire-waistline, sateen gown.  I think awareness kicked in quickly enough that only the hem and petticoat flashed.

Over in the long-term facility, I searched out a patient I had met on previous visits and wanted to check on.  “Hi, I’m Lynette.  I’m the Chaplaincy Intern?”  (Oh dear God, do you have to sound like a telemarketer!)  OK, so this is new too.  I am politely told where to go (next floor up) and as I head to the elevators, the young person sitting by window calls out.  “Hey!  Who are you?  What are you doing here!”  I suddenly realize I’m doing that “on a mission don’t make eye contact in case someone needs you outside your office” walk I learned in my previous internships.  Look up.  Make eye contact.  Be grateful someone woke you up.  She smiles; I smile and introduce myself, sounding less like a telemarketer and more like I’m a happily lost soul.  We talk at length about Monkey’s Journey to the West and she asks me bring back some books because “Buddha is awesome.”

In our conversation that wound from her holiday gifts through tears about life as it is in this moment and laughter about the antics of Monkey, I noticed a need to ask about her diagnosis, her treatment, her labels.  None of that mattered a damn in that moment and would only have served to separate us.  But my monkey wanted to know because the usual things I can reach for to create protection and an illusion of wisdom are not within range.

So today, when my Lady of the Koto lost her hand, I understood what I’m up against.

Thank you for practising,

Genju

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baking bread

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Things have flown by in a blur over the last few days.  Kid and Cat moved in and my meticulous schedule of procrastination has been irreparably dented.  I think I’m back.  And that is the eternal problem, isn’t it?  I think.  And as for the “back” part, when will I learn that I was never anywhere but here so there’s no “back” to back into?  Other than these mental flappings of my cognitive wings, it’s been quite a lovely holiday… so far.

I’ve spent a bit of time wandering over to various blogs. Over the last few months, there hasn’t been a spare moment to enjoy the amazing authors and their wisdom.  In fact, there’s been precious little time to develop my own writing – leaving me to even wonder if I can keep up the pace of a daily missive.  Of course, when I do read the H-core Zennies, I begin to wonder what the heck I’m doing trying to translate my practice into words.  Is this Zen?  Is this practice?  Is this worth the nanosecond keystroke?  But beyond the usual self-flagellation for low self-worth (a sure cure for poor self-esteem, I tell you, is to beat yourself up silly and then eat chocolate), my reflections on blogging are still positive.  It has to be.  It’s the only goal in my Initial Learning Plan for chaplaincy that is being met.  Goals 1-3 are trashed and that will be chaff for another grinding.

So.  What’s been happening?  For the soul, Santa Jizo dropped off a few books for me to chomp on over the holidays: The Work of the Chaplain (nice documentation but little soul), Unlimiting Mind by Andrew Olendzki (nice review over at NellaLou’s; looking forward to it), and Great Doubt (mentioned in passing here a few posts ago; so far a bit disappointing but it’s published by my OI dharma sister and brother so I’d better be nice).  The Kid gave me Everything is Broken by Emma Larkin – a tale of Burma’s tragedy and farce.  And she gave me something else that will take a bit of consideration before I post about it.

For the body, I got a gadget.  A new breadmaker that makes breads in traditional-shaped loaves.  If you’ve succumbed to the production of bread via Teflon blades and preheat cycles rather than the intense tactile kinesthetic process of muscling dough, you know the problem with most bread makers is the tall, impossible to slice or store shapes dictated by the form of the machine.  No longer!

Meet my sexy, sleek new love.  It’s got a zillion bake cycles and three memory storages for my favourite things.  Frank still out-performs it in the memory-for-my-favourite-things department but really, this baby puts out for Mamma.

Christmas lunch was planned to be simple because we were bringing my Mum over for the first time in a year.  We were anxious because getting her to cooperate with dressing for outings has been hit-and-miss for a long while.  Her dementia has progressed sufficiently that the usual “hooks” don’t work.  But I was going to take an optimistic approach and prepared veggie “meat” pie topped with mashed potatoes which were laced with cambozola cheese chunks and served with hot cornbread.

Having been experimenting with gluten-free recipes, I threw together a cornbread mix in the old bread maker.

There’s a very brave woodpecker out there who has my eternal love.  Failure only means you have to modify the recipe in a different direction.  But the lunch being the next day, I opted for a tactical retreat.  My tried-and-true gluten-and-fat-laden Southern cornbread!

There were no complaints except from the juncos and chickadees who felt Woody was hogging the hanging loaf.

The next day I took a test drive with my new buddy.  A Zojirushi bread machine with enough gearshifts to deal with the temperamental curves of GF baking.  Look at it!  Doesn’t it make you weep?  A Poppyseed loaf – it lasted a day or two.

For the spirit, I got this:

This is Mom.  I just missed a shot of her trying on the slippers as mitts.  Unlimited by form, a true practitioner.  Dementia does that, I suppose.  Cleaves off the complicated parts of our mind and leaves the barest minimum.  Although I would wish that some of the necessary pieces were still intact – like certain memories.  But then, maybe that’s not really necessary either:

It’s all a matter of getting the right ingredients, not letting the recipe rule, and finding the right combination of warmth, leavening, and letting go of what shape you want it in.

Thank you for practising,

Genju