I try to keep the computer in its place. I try to see it as only a tool, rather than a portal through which most information now comes to me. But in truth, since the MacBook, I rarely open a newspaper, unfold a family recipe, follow a map, or listen to an Elder tell me a thing or two.
My husband loves all things digital the way I love all things analog.
I am sensory starved. I need soil and salt, paper and wood, catgut and pine tar, mushrooms and seashells -- like I need air and water. He loves ones and zeros, instant transmission. He does not know there are a hundred different names for snow. I do not know why faster is better.
He is away now, on a road trip with a friend like me. They are driving in a car made of bolts and springs, running on gas and oil, spaces filled with local radio, manzanita bushes and papery rattle snake skins.
Surely there must be a way to email a piano from Carson City to Los Angeles
But as always, when pulled away from his computers, into the world of flesh and blood, desert dust and an Elder’s artifacts, he is happy.
And today I downloaded a video he shot from his phone, of a bluegrass band and cloggers. A 10 second digital transmission of image and sound representing earth and sweat, fiddles and cowboy hats. In the background his voice said “I gotta send this to my Wife.”
Sitting in front of my laptop, I played it 14 times in a row, trying to feel the vibration of a hundred work boots stomping on linoleum, trying to smell potato salad with horse radish and pimentos, trying to feel a cotton skirt whipping my legs as he pulls me in tight circles, while he smiles and says “You know, the speakers are out of phase.”
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Natasha The Hummingbird
Natasha lives inside my head, right in front. She has not had enough sleep, and she’s got big plans. She’s tapping her foot lightning fast and chewing on my lips. She is a pain in my ass.
I have important things to do, but this over caffeinated humming bird is flying full force against the window in my forehead. She slams her body against my skull over and over again, believing she can actually fly out of my head. She’s captive in there and can’t stand it. If my head were a yacht, she’d steal a tiny jet ski, then bolt off the back like some immortal character in a loud movie about jewel heists or political espionage.
And even if she really could find a tiny jet ski, she’d screw it up. Once in the water she’d immediately think of something she left on the boat, then slide off the water rocket with the motor running and the keys in the ignition. She’d swim back to the boat but then, before reaching the deck ladder she’d see a flash of silver in the water and follow it down to a cave which she’s certain is filled with sunken treasure.
When she got to the cave and found no treasure she’d cry. She’d mourn deeply the loss of time and energy invested in this poorly planned quest. As she floated, not moving, I’d have a split second to pet her exhausted iridescent little head. I’d tell her I’m sorry this happened, again. I’m so sorry that she’s so tired. I’d gently scoop her up and pull her out of the cave, out of the water. Little waterfalls would pour through my fingers and my beautiful humming bird would sputter and flutter her pinkish blue eyelids.
As she looked up at me, she’d instantly recognize the cinematic potential of this moment and begin a b-grade actress performance of the near drowned ingénue in the strategically torn swimsuit. She’d arch her tiny back while stealing looks at me to see if I’m impressed.
I started breakfast at some point this morning. But instead of watching the skillet, I’ve been following Natasha. She’s far more interesting. Now the eggs are ruined. I can’t blame Natasha. She’s a humming bird. I have to blame someone. I blame myself.
Natasha has four thousand suggestions for an alternate breakfast. She also has twelve deep theories for why I cannot stop watching her, following her, rescuing her. Of course her favorite is that she is so riveting, so beautiful, so talented and so important that I simply have no choice.
You should see her nest. While other birds methodically collected appropriate building materials for a proper nest, Natasha drew plans for her glow in the dark bowling alley. While other birds wove the wispy veins of decomposed leaves into a sturdy foundation, Natasha hastily picked up a few bulky twigs and tied them together with bits of trash. She didn’t have the patience to remove the trash before she began building. But the shredded grocery bags and beer caps proved quite handy so she called herself “resourceful” and called their inclusion “art.”
At two thirds done, she had a vision. In a dream state, she saw the ornamental potential of the half woven house, and changed direction in mid construction. Now the floppy wreath of bread bag twisties and cat hair will become a crown, rightfully identifying her as the power behind my brilliance.
So, flying awkwardly under the weight of her bulky crown, she zooms back to the perch behind my forehead. Once there, she sees my botched breakfast, and she gets an idea. She lunges back to the kitchen. I am terribly excited to see what she’ll do, so of course I follow.
Back in the kitchen she directs me to empty the entire pantry in search of a specific jar of tangerine marmalade that I swiped from a fantasy restaurant at a gaudy resort in Mexico. I loved that trip. That’s where I discovered that every thing is better with lime juice and salt. She heard my thoughts, and shrieked. New plan! Now we’re going for a stunning platter of papaya and jicima and pineapple sprinkled with lime and salt.
Natasha flies out of the pantry at warp speed, hitting my head on the cupboard on the way out.
While slicing jicima, I slowly notice that my head really, truly hurts from the whacking it took as it followed Natasha on her manic quest for the perfect breakfast.
The pain in my head is strong. The rhythmic throbbing of the bell tower in which Natasha lives is so severe that even she must hunker down. She lowers her center of gravity for each blow. This bump needs ice, and I need aspirin. These two tasks are difficult because my skull is swelling. And because, despite all my rushing and effort, I haven’t actually eaten anything yet.
What do I do? How did my day begin like this? Where did I put the aspirin the last time I used it? What am I going to do about food? Why can’t I just focus on one thing at a time?
From her corner, still bracing herself against the throbbing, Natasha perks up and whispers, “I have an idea!!!!!” She convinces me that I’ll feel better if we buy art supplies. I’m sure we’ll pass a coffee shop on the way so I can pick up a muffin and I think there’s a drug store on the way and aspirin is cheap and now that I think of it, I need some wire from the hardware store.
Natasha is already flying full force, slamming her little body against the windshield in my forehead. According to her we should have already gone and come back. She is designing a spreadsheet program that will help me stay organized. She’s found a Sharpie and is already scribbling on the walls of my skull.
On the way to the bank Natasha falls asleep. I am alone for the first time today. I am sitting in traffic wanting nothing more than to be home at my table, quietly eating a hot breakfast and reading a book. Natasha wakes up and reminds me to stop at the library. No -- the bookstore. There’s a coffee shop there. And she wants a book about Mexican gardens.
I have important things to do, but this over caffeinated humming bird is flying full force against the window in my forehead. She slams her body against my skull over and over again, believing she can actually fly out of my head. She’s captive in there and can’t stand it. If my head were a yacht, she’d steal a tiny jet ski, then bolt off the back like some immortal character in a loud movie about jewel heists or political espionage.
And even if she really could find a tiny jet ski, she’d screw it up. Once in the water she’d immediately think of something she left on the boat, then slide off the water rocket with the motor running and the keys in the ignition. She’d swim back to the boat but then, before reaching the deck ladder she’d see a flash of silver in the water and follow it down to a cave which she’s certain is filled with sunken treasure.
When she got to the cave and found no treasure she’d cry. She’d mourn deeply the loss of time and energy invested in this poorly planned quest. As she floated, not moving, I’d have a split second to pet her exhausted iridescent little head. I’d tell her I’m sorry this happened, again. I’m so sorry that she’s so tired. I’d gently scoop her up and pull her out of the cave, out of the water. Little waterfalls would pour through my fingers and my beautiful humming bird would sputter and flutter her pinkish blue eyelids.
As she looked up at me, she’d instantly recognize the cinematic potential of this moment and begin a b-grade actress performance of the near drowned ingénue in the strategically torn swimsuit. She’d arch her tiny back while stealing looks at me to see if I’m impressed.
I started breakfast at some point this morning. But instead of watching the skillet, I’ve been following Natasha. She’s far more interesting. Now the eggs are ruined. I can’t blame Natasha. She’s a humming bird. I have to blame someone. I blame myself.
Natasha has four thousand suggestions for an alternate breakfast. She also has twelve deep theories for why I cannot stop watching her, following her, rescuing her. Of course her favorite is that she is so riveting, so beautiful, so talented and so important that I simply have no choice.
You should see her nest. While other birds methodically collected appropriate building materials for a proper nest, Natasha drew plans for her glow in the dark bowling alley. While other birds wove the wispy veins of decomposed leaves into a sturdy foundation, Natasha hastily picked up a few bulky twigs and tied them together with bits of trash. She didn’t have the patience to remove the trash before she began building. But the shredded grocery bags and beer caps proved quite handy so she called herself “resourceful” and called their inclusion “art.”
At two thirds done, she had a vision. In a dream state, she saw the ornamental potential of the half woven house, and changed direction in mid construction. Now the floppy wreath of bread bag twisties and cat hair will become a crown, rightfully identifying her as the power behind my brilliance.
So, flying awkwardly under the weight of her bulky crown, she zooms back to the perch behind my forehead. Once there, she sees my botched breakfast, and she gets an idea. She lunges back to the kitchen. I am terribly excited to see what she’ll do, so of course I follow.
Back in the kitchen she directs me to empty the entire pantry in search of a specific jar of tangerine marmalade that I swiped from a fantasy restaurant at a gaudy resort in Mexico. I loved that trip. That’s where I discovered that every thing is better with lime juice and salt. She heard my thoughts, and shrieked. New plan! Now we’re going for a stunning platter of papaya and jicima and pineapple sprinkled with lime and salt.
Natasha flies out of the pantry at warp speed, hitting my head on the cupboard on the way out.
While slicing jicima, I slowly notice that my head really, truly hurts from the whacking it took as it followed Natasha on her manic quest for the perfect breakfast.
The pain in my head is strong. The rhythmic throbbing of the bell tower in which Natasha lives is so severe that even she must hunker down. She lowers her center of gravity for each blow. This bump needs ice, and I need aspirin. These two tasks are difficult because my skull is swelling. And because, despite all my rushing and effort, I haven’t actually eaten anything yet.
What do I do? How did my day begin like this? Where did I put the aspirin the last time I used it? What am I going to do about food? Why can’t I just focus on one thing at a time?
From her corner, still bracing herself against the throbbing, Natasha perks up and whispers, “I have an idea!!!!!” She convinces me that I’ll feel better if we buy art supplies. I’m sure we’ll pass a coffee shop on the way so I can pick up a muffin and I think there’s a drug store on the way and aspirin is cheap and now that I think of it, I need some wire from the hardware store.
Natasha is already flying full force, slamming her little body against the windshield in my forehead. According to her we should have already gone and come back. She is designing a spreadsheet program that will help me stay organized. She’s found a Sharpie and is already scribbling on the walls of my skull.
On the way to the bank Natasha falls asleep. I am alone for the first time today. I am sitting in traffic wanting nothing more than to be home at my table, quietly eating a hot breakfast and reading a book. Natasha wakes up and reminds me to stop at the library. No -- the bookstore. There’s a coffee shop there. And she wants a book about Mexican gardens.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Edwina The Protector
I have a beastie named Edwina. She is a dragon with deep blue-green scales. She wears a spiked collar like a bad-ass pit bull.
Edwina is not happy. She stands at the kitchen counter, chain-smoking in her bathrobe. She is waiting . . . waiting for the first hint of indignation. She can smell it like a gas leak when the dryer is not hooked up properly. Edwina’s eyebrows are knit in a tight crease. I don’t like her.
Edwina has an important job, but I didn’t actually hire her. She just came with the building. She guards a trembling secret that lives in a rusted box in the basement. The secret is a slimy, gelatinous mass of goo that never set properly, like watery jello from a church social on a Tuesday afternoon. Some idiot didn’t read the instructions correctly. I think that idiot was me.
That rusted box holds all my gooey, leaky attempts at greatness. And that’s the secret: most of my accomplishments are half set, not ready, not good enough, failed, quit, half assed. My jello will never stand up in great jiggly glory at a party of people I love and respect.
But rather than sit quietly in the basement with my bad jello, I dance on the roof advertising my grandeur. “I am a grown up!" "I am a professional!" "I am an academic!" "I'm an expert!" "I have experience that is worth paying for, with your money, your respect, your friendship.”
I honk like an egomaniacal peacock, puffed up, iridescent feathers flayed out like a Persian fan. “Come see how beautiful I am!” “Gasp at my accomplishments!” “Swoon at my intelligence!” “Come listen with rapt attention to my witty comebacks and lively stories of adventure and peril and triumph!”
However, there begins the danger. The moment you are close enough to worship me you are also close enough to notice the jello is sliding off the plate. You weren’t supposed to see that.
But you did, and I noticed you noticing. And then, like any good watch-dragon guarding her mistress’s secret, Edwina springs to life and stands poised and foaming. She jumps up like a feral cat, not yet in attack mode, but slinking, low bellied, ears flat, pacing in slow motion, waiting and watching for the twitch.
I feel Edwina’s hackles rise. They tickle the back of my throat. I know she’s awake and up to no good, her suspicious and defensive attitude backs up my esophagus. Stinging and familiar.
She has a retch for “How dare you notice that my stories don’t add up” and a screach for “How dare you be disappointed in me” and a snarl for “How dare you imply I’m not what I advertised” and a scream for “You just don’t understand how I’ve been thwarted.” And a pained howl for “But I have so much potential!”
Edwina has embarrassed me too many times.
I tired to kill her once. I beat her senseless with positive affirmations. I made her recite disgusting phrases like “I am perfectly safe and worthy of love and respect with out performing like a dolphin.” and “My imperfections are what make me beautiful and interesting.” She choked on them, but damn it, she would not die.
Turns out I just needed the affirmation “No one believes my bullshit.”
Like most Beasties, Edwina is not terribly sophisticated. I’ve tried reasoning with her but it’s like discussing string theory with a kumquat. So I demoted her. She is my employee, after all. She is no longer in charge of guarding the secret of my imperfection.
I’ve decided my imperfection no longer needs to be secret. I just can't keep up the crazy roof top dance anymore. It was exhausting and embarrassing.
Edwina’s new job is to guard the goblin in my mouth, Ed. Ed blurts out self-aggrandizing statements and lies like mad. Ed was creating most of the trouble in the first place.
Edwina is still with me. She will always be near, ready to snarl and spit at any one who pokes a finger into my bad jello. But she has been removed from key positions, her security clearance has been revoked and she’s no longer allowed to roam freely in the building. She’s shrunk a bit in the last few years as well -- no longer a giant Beastie, but now sort of like a Beenie Baby with teeth.
The important thing is that I have her. She doesn’t have me.
Edwina is not happy. She stands at the kitchen counter, chain-smoking in her bathrobe. She is waiting . . . waiting for the first hint of indignation. She can smell it like a gas leak when the dryer is not hooked up properly. Edwina’s eyebrows are knit in a tight crease. I don’t like her.
Edwina has an important job, but I didn’t actually hire her. She just came with the building. She guards a trembling secret that lives in a rusted box in the basement. The secret is a slimy, gelatinous mass of goo that never set properly, like watery jello from a church social on a Tuesday afternoon. Some idiot didn’t read the instructions correctly. I think that idiot was me.
That rusted box holds all my gooey, leaky attempts at greatness. And that’s the secret: most of my accomplishments are half set, not ready, not good enough, failed, quit, half assed. My jello will never stand up in great jiggly glory at a party of people I love and respect.
But rather than sit quietly in the basement with my bad jello, I dance on the roof advertising my grandeur. “I am a grown up!" "I am a professional!" "I am an academic!" "I'm an expert!" "I have experience that is worth paying for, with your money, your respect, your friendship.”
I honk like an egomaniacal peacock, puffed up, iridescent feathers flayed out like a Persian fan. “Come see how beautiful I am!” “Gasp at my accomplishments!” “Swoon at my intelligence!” “Come listen with rapt attention to my witty comebacks and lively stories of adventure and peril and triumph!”
However, there begins the danger. The moment you are close enough to worship me you are also close enough to notice the jello is sliding off the plate. You weren’t supposed to see that.
But you did, and I noticed you noticing. And then, like any good watch-dragon guarding her mistress’s secret, Edwina springs to life and stands poised and foaming. She jumps up like a feral cat, not yet in attack mode, but slinking, low bellied, ears flat, pacing in slow motion, waiting and watching for the twitch.
I feel Edwina’s hackles rise. They tickle the back of my throat. I know she’s awake and up to no good, her suspicious and defensive attitude backs up my esophagus. Stinging and familiar.
She has a retch for “How dare you notice that my stories don’t add up” and a screach for “How dare you be disappointed in me” and a snarl for “How dare you imply I’m not what I advertised” and a scream for “You just don’t understand how I’ve been thwarted.” And a pained howl for “But I have so much potential!”
Edwina has embarrassed me too many times.
I tired to kill her once. I beat her senseless with positive affirmations. I made her recite disgusting phrases like “I am perfectly safe and worthy of love and respect with out performing like a dolphin.” and “My imperfections are what make me beautiful and interesting.” She choked on them, but damn it, she would not die.
Turns out I just needed the affirmation “No one believes my bullshit.”
Like most Beasties, Edwina is not terribly sophisticated. I’ve tried reasoning with her but it’s like discussing string theory with a kumquat. So I demoted her. She is my employee, after all. She is no longer in charge of guarding the secret of my imperfection.
I’ve decided my imperfection no longer needs to be secret. I just can't keep up the crazy roof top dance anymore. It was exhausting and embarrassing.
Edwina’s new job is to guard the goblin in my mouth, Ed. Ed blurts out self-aggrandizing statements and lies like mad. Ed was creating most of the trouble in the first place.
Edwina is still with me. She will always be near, ready to snarl and spit at any one who pokes a finger into my bad jello. But she has been removed from key positions, her security clearance has been revoked and she’s no longer allowed to roam freely in the building. She’s shrunk a bit in the last few years as well -- no longer a giant Beastie, but now sort of like a Beenie Baby with teeth.
The important thing is that I have her. She doesn’t have me.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Fireflies
Yes, they are cliché, but fireflies are real; like silver dollars and white dresses and wedding cake.
Fireflies are chemical hiccups, bioluminescent love letters sent through midwest twilight under old trees in a stranger’s yard, where he made his tired bride giggle and gasp for humid August air.
She’d never seen fireflies before. Heard of them, like she’d heard of unicorns and fairy dust.
On boney knees in Blue Grass, he caught them in cat leaps, held them in the small cave of his slender hands then released them before her shining eyes . . . two and three at a time.
Antennae
Every morning I plant bare feet on this hardwood and step surely into my kitchen, into a day of scrambled eggs, giggling children, whole hearts and unbroken bones. Yet swimming quietly through this bubbling brew of beauty and abundance is a pale blue ribbon: the fearless knowledge that it all could explode without warning. The ribbon is essential to the recipe.
The house may burn. Mutant cells may bloom in my child’s bones. I might miss a red light. Some other country’s bullets may pierce the veil between Us and Them. Then we’d all be hungry and scared but we’d still breathe. The earth will rotate again, and then again. Every day a new yellow light will fill the shadows behind dumpsters and churches despite our pain or plans. We’ll wake again and then again and one day we’ll smile quietly at strangers; even if we are those strangers wandering hand in hand through a broken world.
And even if the breath staggering from my lungs is ragged and faint, it’s just breath. And it’s just a body. And it’s just a slice of time in which I happen to be aware of Time.
And yes, my heart will break, over and over again. And so will yours. But these resilient little muscles will beat faithfully as we heal. Such a glorious burden to be self aware, to be sentient little animals.
This would be so much easier if I were a rock, if you were a tree, if the tickling on our shoulders was only sweat evaporating, rather than a million tiny antennae straining, listening with delicious anxiety for any thing about me me me me me me.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Love Letter to My Daughter When She Was Three
I love you more than fish heads
I love you more than bugs
I love you more than stinky socks
or worms or snails or slugs
If you were a piece of candy
with chocolate creme and nuts
I'd set you on a flowered plate
and eat your tasty guts
I love you more than bugs
I love you more than stinky socks
or worms or snails or slugs
If you were a piece of candy
with chocolate creme and nuts
I'd set you on a flowered plate
and eat your tasty guts
One Good Rock To The Head
Tuesday morning service. It’s quiet: there are only about 10 of us, mainly women. We each hold 108 beads on soft cords in our hands and chant words of compassion. OK, so the words are in Japanese. I’m OK with that. In fact, I kind of like it. I can let go of needing to agree with every word. And besides, the 200 year old woman behind me is doing that freaky bull frog thing with her voice and its making my chest rumble like I’m standing too close to the speakers at rock concert. I sneak a look at her. She is about 4 feet tall with a perm so tight it hurts MY head. That voice cannot be coming out of her. She winks at me.
At a certain cue, each person approaches a flower heavy altar. At the center of the altar is a huge white stone statue of a great Teacher. After sprinkling a pinch of powdered incense onto smoldering coal in a tiny cauldron, we bow. Except me.
I would not bow. I stayed in my seat and watched.
I used to bow. As a child I said prayers before bed. My brother and I got into our pajamas, mine usually some fire hazard nighty made out of spun petroleum and decorated with scratchy lace. After brushing our teeth, we’d get on our knees at the side of our beds. Many nights I woke with a shag carpet imprint on my cheek, wondering if I ever got to “and lead us not into temptation.”
Growing up with a mad man who could crack at any moment, I learned to avert my eyes when he was around. This automatically bowed my head slightly. He liked that. It’s no mistake that evil tyrants demand that their subjects bow. It’s a strategic physical and psychological position. To me, bowing meant declaring myself a beaten dog offering myself for more humiliation. Bowing brought to mind images of people with no rights, no dignity, no self-determination.
I knew that bowing meant something different here.
The Bull Frog woman was so clearly self-defined, and she was bowing, and bowing deep too. I can only hope my knees are as good when I’m her age. Every week, she walked back up the aisle, past me and did not look at me but I swear she was sending me psychic messages that said “Wussy.”
I finally asked Sensei to tell me about bowing.
He spoke slowly. “The top of your head is most vulnerable. There is a soft spot there. If someone wanted to kill you, they could do it with one big rock. When we bow to one another, we say “I trust you with my life.” In our case, it is saying to this Teacher, ‘I trust you with my spiritual life.’ Offer your soft spot, where there is less resistance. Some truth may enter with out having to fight your ego.”
For the first year of our lives, the three boney plates of our little skulls are not yet fused. Touch the top of any baby’s head and you’ll feel a soft warm indentation. Mothers instinctively protect that soft spot. As we hold our little drool machines close to our chests, we murmur love and instructions into that furry little dip.
How often has that circle at the top of our heads been covered, uncovered, decorated, protected, exposed, and touched in the quest for understanding?
Men remove their hats before entering church. Boys are asked to remove baseball caps in the classroom. Mothers braid flowers into yellow wreaths for their daughters’ wispy heads. Kings and Queens wear crowns. The Buddha is often shown with a lotus flower sprouting from the top of his head and the alternate halo and thorns that encircled Jesus’ head were hugely significant.
So many Rulers and Teachers have asked us to be humble, to let go of our pride and bow and I have screamed at every one of them.
I remember being called hard headed when I refused to open up, let go of my opinions, my calcified ideas, my arrogance.
Sensei said, “A good Teacher has no desire to control you or hurt you. He only wants you to let down your defenses and open your mind."
I can do this. In fact I’ve been yearning to do this for years. I’m slow to trust. The protective shields over my soft spots are semi permanent. But as I learn how resilient my spirit is, and how badly I want the wisdom of good Teachers, I am finally willing, thrilled even to bow my head, offering that fontanel like a cup, saying please, pour pour pour.
Now, there is an addendum to this story; One morning I decided to do 108 bows with the old monks. They look like huge black butterflies folding and unfolding over and over again as they do full prostrations in silk robes. I don’t wear robes. I am half their age. I do yoga. I died at bow number 62. My knees still crack and that was a year ago. One of the monks smiled at me and said, “Its all about practice. Just like life. That’s what we do; we practice.”
At a certain cue, each person approaches a flower heavy altar. At the center of the altar is a huge white stone statue of a great Teacher. After sprinkling a pinch of powdered incense onto smoldering coal in a tiny cauldron, we bow. Except me.
I would not bow. I stayed in my seat and watched.
I used to bow. As a child I said prayers before bed. My brother and I got into our pajamas, mine usually some fire hazard nighty made out of spun petroleum and decorated with scratchy lace. After brushing our teeth, we’d get on our knees at the side of our beds. Many nights I woke with a shag carpet imprint on my cheek, wondering if I ever got to “and lead us not into temptation.”
Growing up with a mad man who could crack at any moment, I learned to avert my eyes when he was around. This automatically bowed my head slightly. He liked that. It’s no mistake that evil tyrants demand that their subjects bow. It’s a strategic physical and psychological position. To me, bowing meant declaring myself a beaten dog offering myself for more humiliation. Bowing brought to mind images of people with no rights, no dignity, no self-determination.
I knew that bowing meant something different here.
The Bull Frog woman was so clearly self-defined, and she was bowing, and bowing deep too. I can only hope my knees are as good when I’m her age. Every week, she walked back up the aisle, past me and did not look at me but I swear she was sending me psychic messages that said “Wussy.”
I finally asked Sensei to tell me about bowing.
He spoke slowly. “The top of your head is most vulnerable. There is a soft spot there. If someone wanted to kill you, they could do it with one big rock. When we bow to one another, we say “I trust you with my life.” In our case, it is saying to this Teacher, ‘I trust you with my spiritual life.’ Offer your soft spot, where there is less resistance. Some truth may enter with out having to fight your ego.”
For the first year of our lives, the three boney plates of our little skulls are not yet fused. Touch the top of any baby’s head and you’ll feel a soft warm indentation. Mothers instinctively protect that soft spot. As we hold our little drool machines close to our chests, we murmur love and instructions into that furry little dip.
How often has that circle at the top of our heads been covered, uncovered, decorated, protected, exposed, and touched in the quest for understanding?
Men remove their hats before entering church. Boys are asked to remove baseball caps in the classroom. Mothers braid flowers into yellow wreaths for their daughters’ wispy heads. Kings and Queens wear crowns. The Buddha is often shown with a lotus flower sprouting from the top of his head and the alternate halo and thorns that encircled Jesus’ head were hugely significant.
So many Rulers and Teachers have asked us to be humble, to let go of our pride and bow and I have screamed at every one of them.
I remember being called hard headed when I refused to open up, let go of my opinions, my calcified ideas, my arrogance.
Sensei said, “A good Teacher has no desire to control you or hurt you. He only wants you to let down your defenses and open your mind."
I can do this. In fact I’ve been yearning to do this for years. I’m slow to trust. The protective shields over my soft spots are semi permanent. But as I learn how resilient my spirit is, and how badly I want the wisdom of good Teachers, I am finally willing, thrilled even to bow my head, offering that fontanel like a cup, saying please, pour pour pour.
Now, there is an addendum to this story; One morning I decided to do 108 bows with the old monks. They look like huge black butterflies folding and unfolding over and over again as they do full prostrations in silk robes. I don’t wear robes. I am half their age. I do yoga. I died at bow number 62. My knees still crack and that was a year ago. One of the monks smiled at me and said, “Its all about practice. Just like life. That’s what we do; we practice.”
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