Monthly Archives: November 2009

The glass is already broken

When I was first learning about Buddhism, I travelled to Thailand with several of my friends and teachers and went to the forest monastery of a renowned meditation master named Achaan Chah. Gathering round him after our arrival, we asked him to explain the Buddha’s teachings. He motioned to a glass sitting to one side of him. “Do you see this glass?” he asked us. “I love this glass. It holds water admirably. When the sun shines on it, it reflects the light beautifully. When I tap it, it has a lovely ring. Yet for me, this glass is already broken. When the wind knocks it over or my elbow knocks it off the shelf and it falls to the ground and shatters, I say, ‘Of course’. But when I understand that this glass is already broken, every minute with it is precious.”

This quote, from Mark Epstein’s Psychotherapy Without the Self, seems to me to sum up perfectly the benefits of truly acknowledging impermenance.

I think a common misunderstanding of Buddhism is that if we practice not being attached to things, then we go through life feeling dead to the people and the things around us – that we just don’t care any more.

For me, acknolwedging that nothing is permanent helps me to get CLOSER to experiencing life as it is. It helps me to engage what is as it is, knowing all the time that it won’t last forever. It’s not easy, but it helps me to love things more, not less.

What is precious to you? How can you love it, knowing that it is already broken?

The lies to stop believing

This wise looking character is my friend Aboodi. He’s a very fine coach and (amongst other things) I admire the way he goes against the happy-clappier elements in the coaching world and proposes something more realistic and grounded.

He’s recently started his weekly newsletter Stirring the Soul up again, and I thought I’d share last weeks with you. To sign up yourself, go here, and here’s his blog, and here’s where he tweets.

Thanks Bood, good to have you back. Here’s what he said…

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In this issue, I want to take a look at one of the ideas I’ve been working on, along the lines of “lies to stop believing”.

For a long time now, I’ve been uncomfortable with some aspects of the personal development movement, with its focus on positive thinking and unlimited possibility, and, if you like, the “shadow” side of that, and its connection with entitlement, something I’ve written about often.

It’s increasingly my view that entitlement is one of the biggest challenges we face, both as individuals, and as a society, and at the root of many of the problems we face, and it’s a theme I will be returning to often.

The personal development world, in particular, makes many claims about the kind of life that is possible for us, if we follow certain routes, or buy certain books/workshops/coaching, etc.. Some of these claims speak directly to beliefs that we hold about life, too.

There’s nothing wrong with aspirations, or wanting ‘a better life’, but I think we have come to hold these aspirations as expectations – the idea that we are somehow entitled to them, and that, if only we do the right thing, those expectations will come true.

I call these claims “lies to stop believing”, because I have found, both in my own life, and those of the people with whom I work, that there is a lot of suffering caused by the disappointment when these expectations aren’t met.

What are some of these “lies”?

Some day, my prince(ss) will come. Not necessarily – many people face a lifetime of not meeting their prince or princess. An increasing number of us might have to face a future of growing old alone, and accept that there isn’t “someone out there, just for me”.

You can make your dreams come true. You probably can’t. This is one of the ones I hear and read about most often, and perhaps one of the most insidious. Yes, we can aspire to fulfil our dreams, but we need to be grounded in the reality that most of us aren’t going to be able to have the ‘life we always dreamed of’.

Things will get better. No, they might not. This might be ‘as good as it gets’.

If you build it, they will come. Again, they might not.

I deserve better than this. Perhaps, most harshly of all, why? Deserving is absolutely tied up with entitlement, and it’s a myth that I deserve anything – it’s an act of sheer good fortune that I have the comfortable life I have, and am not living on the streets of Rio de Janeiro, or languishing in a prison-cell in Baghdad.

Sorry to be so blunt, but there it is – life is unfair. The good guy doesn’t always get the girl, and the bad guy sometimes wins. We can have our dreams, do our affirmations, practice chanting and meditating on our goals, do the work, network, go on plenty of dates, and still not get what we long for.

This might sound negative, defeatist even, especially from a coach, but I want to suggest that acceptance of the possibility that we might not get what we long for is also a route to peace.

When I accept that life isn’t necessarily going to bring me what I long for (of course it might, but it equally might not), then I have the possibility to ask different questions about life, and to navigate with what is, rather than the striving for, and pain of disappointment if I don’t get, what I yearn for.

What if I am single for the rest of my days? What if I never write that book I’ve been meaning to write? What if my life never gets any “better” than this? What then?

For me, this is deeply connected with the Buddhist ideals of non-attachment. Have goals, by all means. Apply yourself to them with passion and zeal. But the real practice is to accept that you might not live the life you expect to lead, or feel entitled to have. And, yes, there is a paradox there.

In addition, there are many other dimensions to this – the implications for others when we give up our entitlement, the cultural idea that we are somehow responsible or, worse, actually “to blame” if we don’t have a perfect life (unfortunately sometimes disseminated by parts of the personal development world), etc, and, as I said this is a theme I will be returning to frequently.

For now, though, some reflections.
What “lies” do you believe?What has been the cost to you of those? What happens when you accept that you might not get what you want (or what you think you deserve)? What then?

Sometimes what seems like surrender isn’t surrender at all. It’s about what’s going on in our hearts. About seeing clearly the way life is and accepting it and being true to it, whatever the pain, because the pain of not being true to it is far, far greater.
Nicholas Evans, The Horse Whisperer

You are not a precious and unique snowflake; you are the same decaying organic matter as everything else.
Tyler Durden in Fight Club

Thank you for everything

Sometimes, it’s easy to be grateful.

It’s easy when I bounce someone else’s baby on my knee and he grins back at me.

It’s easy when I pull a jar of blackcurrant jam from the back of the cupboard in the depth of winter, and spoon condensed summer onto my toasted teacake.

It’s easy when I receive an email from a reader telling me that Leonard, the kindly gardener from my book ‘A Blue Handbag’, accompanied her through her skin cancer surgery.

But sometimes the practice of gratitude is more challenging.

We don’t feel grateful when we offer the chocolates around and someone takes the last caramel square (the one we had our eye on).

We don’t feel grateful when the cat plants a trail of muddy footprints on our freshly-washed white sheets.

We don’t feel grateful when we’re in a hurry to get home and our car dies at a roundabout.

Sometimes, things go wrong. People let us down. We don’t get what we hoped for. We disappoint ourselves.

Gratitude can help us to live through darker times.

It can remind us of everything we do have to be grateful for. We can enjoy the pleasure on our grandma’s face as she enjoys her caramel square. We can stroke our cat’s belly and listen to him purr. We can be grateful for car mechanics, and mobile phones.

It can also help us to find the learning in our difficult situations. Once we stop blaming the world for being horrid, we might find a lesson we can learn. We might be able to hear something that we couldn’t hear before. We might be able to help someone else through the same darkness.

Can we open up to the difficult bits? Can we say yes to blackcurrant jam AND muddy footprints? Can we say thank you for everything?

On the benefits of forgetting

I’ve just been trawling back through my archives to find Christmas poems.

It’s become a bit of a tradition for me to incude an A4 sheet of poems in all my Christmas cards (even the people I don’t think will read them).
It’s my attempt at spreading the virus of poetry-loving. It isn’t very infectious, but once you’ve caught this wonderful bug you have it for life. I hope you’re already infected.
Whilst I was looking I came across this poem by Franz Wright. It’s rather marvellous and resonates with me very much, but I’d completely forgotten it.
I am prone to complete forgetting – I can watch a film I’ve seen several years before and remember NOTHING of it. Really.
However, I did feel a bit like a goldfish swimming around a corner in his bowl and finding a nice plastic cave. Ah, that’s a nice plastic cave! Ah, that’s a nice plastic cave!

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Publication Date

One of the few pleasures of writing
is the thought of one’s book in the hands of a kind-hearted
intelligent person somewhere. I can’t remember what the others are right now.
I just noticed that it is my own private

National I Hate Myself and Want to Die Day
(which means the next day I will love my life
and want to live forever). The forecast calls
for a cold night in Boston all morning

and all afternoon. They say
tomorrow will be just like today,
only different. I’m in the cemetery now
at the edge of town, how did I get here?

A sparrow limps past on its little bone crutch saying
I am Frederico Garcia Lorca
risen from the dead–
literature will lose, sunlight will win, don’t worry.

Franz Wright

Fantastic Mr Fox

I sometimes hesitate to recommend music or films to other people, because I understand that I tend towards the odd, the off-beat, the dark.

I could understand if people didn’t love the things I love, and I don’t want to rave about something and get someone’s hopes up and then dash them.

However. If I can’t rave about the stuff I love, what can I rave about?

Fantastic Mr Fox is such a fabulous film. It’s (very loosely) based on Roald Dahl’s story, and directed by Wes Anderson, who has made other quirky films such as The Life Aquiatic with Steve Zissou and The Darjeeling Limited.

Not a great deal happens. Mr. Fox likes stealing chickens, but stops at Mrs. Fox’s insistence when they have a baby. Two years later he meets an opossum and they plan to raid the three biggest chicken farmers in the area. Blah blah blah.

The story doesn’t matter to me too much – it’s just an excuse for us to spend time in this fantastic world, with these fantastic flawed ordinary wonderful creatures, and get to know them. I loved their fur, riffling in the wind. I loved the drain cover propped up with a fork. I love these foxes!

“Fantastic Mr. Fox’ is definitely a Wes Anderson movie; it’s full of whimsy and alienation, and it explores troubled relationships.”

Whimsy, alienation, troubled relationships. What more could a girl want?

Free little stones, free books, and all sorts

Here are a couple of little stones to whet your appetite:

full moon
the cat swallows
a mouse whole

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Matt Morden
Morden Haiku

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Wild turkeys roost on my porch rail
around the time in November
when nowhere else is safe.

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George Moore
George Moore

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If you’d like to receive one post from this here very blog, you can.

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Just pootle over to the box that says ‘join my mailing list’ under the tree and above the splash, put in your email address, and choose the lists you’d like to try. It’s easy to unsubscribe so you could always try them all to start with. Help yourself!

Our business in living (according to John Cage) and bendiness

As a part of my Amida Buddhist psychotherapy training, I’m getting to read a lot of interesting books.

‘Psychotherapy without the Self’ by Mark Epstein is a psychodymanic (Freud and all that) as opposed to a person-centred take on using buddhist psychology in psychotherapy practice.

I do like the epigram (that’s the word for the quote at the beginning of books, isn’t it?), by John Cage.

“The great Buddhist scholar D. T. Suzuki came to Columbia to teach [in 1951] and I went for two years to his classes. From Suzuki’s teaching I began to understand that a sober and quiet mind is one in which the ego dose not obstruct the fluency of the things that come in through our senses and up through our dreams. Our business in living is to become fluent with the life we are living, and art can help this.”

Good, eh? To become fluent with the things that come in through our senses and up through our dreams. To allow them in as they are, rather than as what we need them to be. To allow our ego’s tight structures to loosen a little, like a stiff old piece of rubber that can be warmed and massaged and made bendy again.

Here’s to getting a bit more bendy, and welcoming the world in as it is. Happy bendy weekends. And thank you for all the love after my last post. x

PS here’s a live version of a song I’m much enjoying on the radio at the moment – Four Dreams by Jesca Hoop. It’s lovely and chirpy and makes me happy.

Want some cinammon raisin bagel? (and don’t you love me?)

Crispy and toasty on the edges. Everso-slightly sweet. Soft and chewy inside. Dripping (DRIPPING) with melted butter.

Go on, have a wee bite.

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Yesterday I told you I loved you, dear reader. Nobody said it back. How awkward.

; )

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I know I keep sending you over to Chocolate Chip Waffle, but you simply MUST read Terresa’s piece on gratitude. It made me cry a little bit onto my bagel.

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The Bagel

I stopped to pick up the bagel
rolling away in the wind,
annoyed with myself
for having dropped it
as if it were a portent.
Faster and faster it rolled,
with me running after it
bent low, gritting my teeth,
and I found myself doubled over
and rolling down the street
head over heels, one complete somersault
after another like a bagel
and strangely happy with myself.

David Ignatow

On being foolish and full of human passions (and a moist poem)

I attend a group regularly – I can’t tell you what kind, because that bit needs to be anonymous. But it is a group of regular people (I’m going all American – ‘regular’!) and we meet to share our experiences and listen to each other and learn and love each other.

When it was my turn to speak, my theme was how truly messed up we all are. There’s a saying – ‘we are all very sick people – it’s just lucky that we’re sick on different days’. It felt somehow glorious that we were all bumbling along, NO idea most of the time what we are doing. There’s a Buddhist term – bombu nature – we are all bombu, we are all foolish beings. We are ordinary and full of passions. Well, I am anyway.

Last night it was a joy to be in the same boat with all the other bombu members of my group. Last night there was so much love in the room that I thought I might go pop.

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Here’s a very appropriate (and moist) poem. Love you all too, readers – you’re in the boat too.

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My Love For All Things Warm and Breathing

I have seldom loved more than one thing at a time,
yet this morning I feel myself expanding, each
part of me soft and glandular, and under my skin
is room enough now for the loving of many things,
and all of them at once, these students especially,
not only the girl in the yellow sweater, whose
name, Laura Buxton, is somehow the girl herself,
Laura for the coy green mellowing eyes, Buxton
for all the rest, but also the simple girl in blue
on the back row, her mouth sad beyond all reasonable
inducements, and the boy with the weight problem,
his teeth at work even now on his lower lip, and
the grand profusion of hair and nails and hands and
legs and tongues and thighs and fingertips and
wrists and throats, yes, of throats especially,
throats through which passes the breath that joins
the air that enters through these ancient windows,
that exits, that takes with it my own breath, inside
this room just now my love for all things warm and
breathing, that lifts it high to scatter it fine and
enormous into the trees and the grass, into the heat
beneath the earth beneath the stone, into the
boundless lust of all things bound but gathering.

by William Kloefkorn (from Cottonwood County: Poems by William Kloefkorn and Ted Kooser)
Thanks to The Writer’s Almanac – do support them, they’re fab.

How to Write a Great Novel

In this article, 11 well-known authors tell us how they did it.

It’s a little scary to read if you’re a novelist.

If I want to get to know my protagonist (a poetry lecturer), do I videotape myself doing poetry lectures and transcribe 40 hrs of tape to 1000 pages of notes like Nicholson Baker? No.

Do I talk into voice-recognition software for 8 or 9 hours a day like Richard Powers? No.

Do I write furiously from 11pm til 4am like Dan Chaon? No.

Do I get up, have a cup of tea and a cinnamon bagel, write a post about writing a great novel, faff about, and finally settle down to a couple of hours work before tea and biscuits? Do I sometimes feel I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing? Do I trust my characters run the show and step out of the way entirely? That’s a bit more like it.

Thanks to Aliya from Veggie Box for finding this article – she seems to have the same approach as me. Phew.

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Someone is ordering advance copies of my next novel Thaw from The Book Depository – the best place to buy it if you’re not in the UK (and if you are) as they do free overseas delivery. Was it you??? Someone is buying The Blue Handbag from Amazon UK – was it you???

If you have a photo of one of my books in its natural habitat (in your house) do send it through and I’ll add it to my fan page at Facebook. Come and join if you haven’t already.

The Blogsplash is currently standing at 149 blogs. I’m doubting that I’ll reach 1000 unless something amazing happens, but I’m going to keep going – every blog that joins in, big or small, is making me happy.

Have a good Tuesday x