Blog

There are all sorts of friendships. There are the neighbors you wave to and sometimes stop to talk with, there are the people you work with, relatives you feel close to and people who share your interests. But the friendships that make you REAL are the ones that endure through fights, break ups, reconciliations, and deep seeing into one another’s hearts. Real friendships take time. We all have our broken places, vulnerabilities and aspects we’d rather no one ever see. A real friend stays around long enough to see those broken places and still love us. They may not like the effects of our shadow but they love us.

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From our culture’s viewpoint, homemaking has been deemed a waste of time and a prison where dreams go to die by many on the left and turned into a gilded cage, a “should” with limited options for women by many on the right. Are the only choices to either feel like we’ve wasted our life and talents cooking and cleaning, living in a prison where our true self is dropped at the gate, or spending our lives based on someone else’s idea of what a good life, a good woman, is supposed to be, slaves in our home? They are both constructs. One creates free labor, or a form of slavery, while demeaning the domestic women who love to nurture. The other demeans the feminine aspect elevating the male paradigm of work outside the home being more important than work within the home. To hell with both of these limiting beliefs! Thankfully there are more than just these two paths.

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When I went to sleep last night the room was warm from the day’s sun, but by the morning there was a chill. I pulled the comforter that had been resting all summer at the end of the bed, up over me and felt that uniquely autumn coziness that signals the turning of the season. Shortly afterwards it was time to leave the warm nest, throw on some jeans and a tee shirt, and take Max out on our morning walk. My friends have a 5 acre property that they’ve converted into an art farm. Richard is a horticulturist and has used the land as his art canvas. Everywhere there are cacti, ferns, bulbs- like naked ladies and irises-trees from Australia, Africa and local, and many other odds and ends he has picked up on his travels. As an artist I’ve always appreciated walking through his environmental installation. Since I’ve began practicing botanical illustration it’s become even more of a wonderland for me.

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I started to write this newsletter about Elon Musk, Peter Thiel and the rest of the 2025 gang who truly believe they are better than the teeming masses and therefore should have the power to decide which groups are worthy and which groups are cogs. It was going to be about how easy it is to enter into a state of entitlement and how difficult it is to awaken from this sense of deep separation. I know this because I too suffered from this disease. I didn’t have it as bad as some but even my less virulent state of entitlement was difficult to admit to and a devil to unwind. So instead of writing about the problem of deeply engrained entitlement I’d like to share a poem I wrote a few years ago about my process out of that delusion.

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There is more written for mothers these days and the tent is much bigger than it was in the 70’s. The writing is generally about how to use mindfulness to cope with everyday challenges. This is useful, yet not much thought has gone into depth regarding the many other aspects of this important subject that affects a large portion of the population. Western Buddhism has a ways to go to truly include families, not just now and then for a family retreat or for people living in unique Zen communities, but for the rest of us at home and in the world. Disregard of mothers is an active hidden effect of patriarchy in many cultures, including Buddhism. There is a lot of work to do to make up for centuries of neglect and we are just at the very beginning. If Buddhism is to thrive in our Western climate this is something that needs much more attention, thought and love.

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Every blade of grass has an angel bending over it saying, "Grow, grow."

Jewish wisdom from the Midrash

As summer approaches the grasses are high. We had a wonderfully wet winter in California and the spring is alive and vibrant with all sorts of plant life. Out my window are lush fig and persimmon trees, roses, rosemary and lavender bushes. I go outside and wiggle my toes in the volunteer crab grass that has taken over the back of the garden. What great good fortune to feel the land under my feet, to be free! It is in this blissful spirit that I share a poem with you.

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When my naturopathic doctor told me I’d need to get rid of much of my books because they collect mold I said “No way”. “Do you want to get healthy or do you want to keep the books?” I hesitated. I treasure my books. They are a life line to a larger limitless world. This love of books goes deep. My mother read at least one book a week and held a seminar each Wednesday afternoon to share what she was learning from these books with other women. Her love of books goes back to her father who cherished reading, mostly Spinoza. Spinoza was a free thinker in the 1700’s, when free thinking was considered a heresy and grounds for expulsion and even death. Throughout human history there have been a handful of people who had the emotional courage to follow their hearts and minds instead of social norms. Oftentimes they sacrificed their lives and well- being to speak truth to the powers that be. Some were killed and some, like Spinoza, were exiled from their communities. How do we thank the people who write words that push human evolution forward even at the threat of exile and death? So you see why I treasure books.

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My primary Zen vow is to bear witness to the joy and suffering of life. Some consider joy Pollyanna and naive, thinking that despair, given the horrors of the world, is much more realistic. But both joy and suffering are essential aspects of every life, to deny either is unrealistic. At this time, when there is so much despair and dark news, joy becomes a form of activism.

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Last month I shared a story about Siddhartha sitting under a Rose Apple tree as a young boy during his town’s harvest festival. Today I’d like to share a story about Siddhartha under the sacred fig, or bodhi, tree. Fig trees go by numerous names- ficus, bodhi, banyon, pippala. In Hindu tradition the sacred fig tree represents the infinite expanse of the universe. It is known as the tree of life. If you have ever sat beneath the 150 year old Banyon Tree in Maui, or a seasoned banyon tree anywhere, you have a sense of the apparent boundlessness of these trees. They send out shoots that root into the ground expanding the reach of the mother tree. The banyon tree in Maui has thrown out new shoots that expand the tree to cover a full block in Lahaina. Although burnt by the fires, this banyon tree is already showing new signs of life.

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I’d like to share a story with you. When Siddhartha, the future Buddha, was a child he went with his family to the annual planting festival, which took place in spring when the farmers were preparing to sow the year’s crops. It was an important event for the whole community. Local farmers and villagers would come from all around to celebrate. The highlight of the ceremony was the ritual plowing of the first furrow. Only after this official opening of the planting season, and the blessing of the crops, would local farmers begin to sow their fields.

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I know it is a challenging time and sometimes we may feel too small to do anything significant about all the problems we meet. I hope you bring a bit of kindness and sanity into a world that is sorely in need of these qualities. Even just a simple smile at the check- out person at the grocery store. These things reverberate.  And, I hope you find joy in self-expression and in the company other others who support and love you.

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As 2023 draws to a close, it’s a great time to sweep the old path clean of leaves and debris in order to better see the first step into the unknowable future.  I invite you to join me in a very special, very ancient, practice of remembering together. The practice is called council. In council we sit together around a virtual fire as we speak and listen in a safe space. The space is made safe by the mutual agreement of the group to speak from the heart, listen from the heart, not comment on one another’s words and, as they say in Las Vegas, “what is said here stays here”. This practice started with American indigenous cultures around the camp fire and moved into Zen centers, prisons, and meeting spaces around the world. It has helped create transformation in board rooms, zendos, and living rooms. Council provides us with a safe space to speak into, a space where we are not judged, where no one tries to fix us, where we can just take a breath and be ourselves. I have personally found this practice of speaking and listening immensely helpful and healing. It has created a level of comfort and self- acceptance I’ve never known before.

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Many of us are deeply stirred by the conflict in the middle East. The question of what to think and what to do have been weighing heavily on my mind day and night.  I’ve tried multiple times to write a thought piece about the war, from a Buddhist perspective and from my personal perspective as a Jewish person, but each time I write something I receive new information and what I wrote the day before becomes obsolete. So please take what I am sharing today as just my opinion, an opinion that can change as I stay open to better understanding. I read and watch the news and have been in meetings online listening to different perspectives on the situation. The two meetings that stand out for me are the Zen Peacemakers gathering where we heard from Palestinian and an Israeli peacemakers and an online workshop led by a Palestinian Muslim woman and an Israeli Jewish woman.

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The wind swirls leaves up and down the street in one last dance before winter. The grapes are being harvested, winter has begun its icy whisper. Autumn is a time of gathering and a time of reflection. As the change of seasons turn us within the ancestors draw near. In Mexico this is celebrated as dia los Muertos, the day of the dead. The Jewish culture enters this season with Rosh Hashanah, which begins a 10 day period of self-reflection ending in Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, where we make amends for the passing year’s transgressions.

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We all go through our losses, unmet expectations, physical challenges and sorrows. Nestling down under the covers and moaning is an important part of the process. But it is also important not to let troubles drag us around like tin cans tied to our tails. Even in the midst of our sorrow and pain exist worlds full of surprises- periwinkle blue flowers, a wise man popping up out of nowhere telling us to have fun or an unexpected meal in the middle of the trail. I still felt lousy and my extended family situation remained unresolved. But this day also contained a sort of sparkling magic, a great dog who likes to sniff everything, surprise people popping up out of nowhere to dispel wisdom, and flowers in a field of dry straw.

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This summer the Barbie movie is sliding into movie theatres throughout the world.  Unlike the usual blockbuster movie, this coming of age story features a girl’s fantasy world as Barbie grows from a girl to a woman, from plastic to real, in a classic hero’s journey.  In the midst of her blissful ignorance the thought arises, “Do you ever think about death?” This disturbing thought forces her to leave the known confines of her play world to visit the real world. When her entry into the real world is discovered by the CEO of Mattel, played by Will Farrell, he cautions an all male board of directors, “No one rests until this doll is back in the box.” In a world where the patriarchy is trying desperately to put women back in the boxes we have worked so hard to break out of through measures such as denying access to abortion and birth control, Barbie comes cheerfully riding to the rescue in her pink sports car. Was there ever a more brilliant Trojan Horse?  Girly, innocent, unassuming, funny-who would ever call Barbie a feminist when even second wave feminists hate her? She brings an awareness of patriarchy into places intelligent thesis or hard- nosed facting could never reach.

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This summer I’m letting the dandelions in my yard run wild. There is something about their freedom that makes me feel free too. My neighbors probably think I’ve gone nuts, or become too sick to care for my yard or am just lazy. A dandelion, after all, in most circles, is considered a weed to be eradicated by poison or yanked out by its roots. But this plant, that civilized society finds offensive to a green lawn, is filled with healing properties and impressive powers. On a burning hot day the dandelion has figured out how to sustain itself by using its spatula like leaves to catch morning dew and funnel the water to its roots. It can grow through cracks in sidewalks and, like the crow, is found almost everywhere on the planet. Dolly Parton sings, “Wild flowers don’t care where they grow”.  The Dandelion is hardy and knows how to survive. A trait well worth cultivating in this time of rapid change.

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It’s early summer. The mornings are cool, heating up by noon. What is there to say? It’s a time of easy being best summed up by the great Haiku poets Basho, Buson and Issa:

 That snail

one long horn, one short,

what’s on his mind?

Buson

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The Tibetan Lojong teaching number 42 says, “Whichever of the two occur, be patient.” I’m sitting in the middle of this glorious spring garden and the unimaginable grief of a family who lost their son and brother. It’s hard to reconcile how life can be so contrasting, how this beautiful world full of birds and flowers and children can also be filled with such profound loss, cruelty and horror. It’s something I may never understand.

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We all need caregivers at some point in our lives. As helpless babies we wouldn’t survive without caregivers. When we’re sick or dying, what a blessing it is to be held in the tender care of someone who touches us with warmth and love. It’s a special talent to know how to be with someone who is helpless and/or in pain, a soft talent, not something crowed about or lauded in art or even everyday life. It requires real compassion to stay present in the face of another’s pain. It requires spiritual maturity to turn towards the pain and human need instead of away from it. People with this talent are a blessing to those of us who are fortunate enough to be in their presence. We need to cultivate and take care of this precious resource.

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