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Seesaw blessings

We walk down to the swing
She raises her hands asking to be pick up and seated
When seated she happily holds the ropes
Moving her body forwards and backwards with the swing
I sing to her:

Seesaw Margery Daw
Mommy shall have a new master
She shall earn but a penny a day
Because she can't work any faster

She sings to me:
Thee thaw dow
La la la la la dow

And the daily drudgery melts away

I sing to her:
Thee thaw dow
La la la la la dow

She giggles in her toddler's deep belly laughter that makes the world go round

We sing together, as the swing moves up and down, our voices touch in a moment of joyful oblivion.
My neighbor peeps over the fence, semi-curious and half-bewildered. We laughingly acknowledge his presence, and I throw-in a humorous explanation: you see, we are in the midst of reinventing the rhyme. He smilingly replies: well, it seems you have a rhyme all to yourselves, and then leaves us to our swing and song.

I Practice for my death

Buddhist practice guides you to mindfully observe the present moment. Mindfulness leads to an inevitable recognition of the impermanent quality of reality. Most times you realize you cannot influence the variety of circumstances that create change. Some times you are one of many causes of change. On other occasions you can only recognize pain, feel compassion for the suffering caused by impermanence and the resistance to the change impermanence introduces.

This war has scrambled my life into uncertainty. Not only were we forced to abandon our plans for the summer vacation, but also many of the beliefs that constitute what I consider to be 'me', are being shattered by every falling missile.

The one certainty in life is death. War has brought death into my home: the realistic possibility of death by a lethal rocket, the loss of plans and beliefs, the stories of dead soldiers and wounded civilians, the live images of the havoc and destruction sowing suffering everywhere, the death of the identity I thought was 'me'.

The meditation bell is often called "a bell of mindfulness". The various tones of the gong bring me back to the present moment, yanking my attention out of the constant babble of the mind.

But now there's no meditation bell, there's only the sound of the alarm.

Every cry of the alarm is a call for mindfulness. Without the comfort of a meditation cushion, without the protective environment of a retreat, this is a practice of naked insight: fear rising with the tangible possibility of death or injury, anger developing into wild rage against those who disrupt my life, who seek to destroy my children, an inner cry against the terrible suffering taking place right here, right there, right now.

During the first Vipassana retreat I participated in, the teacher told us she practices for her death. Never has this plain declaration with its embedded ideas been more palpable than now.

In some remote future I cannot perceive right now, this might crystallize into a clear insight.

A panther wouldn't know what scruples mean

This is the first war I undergo as a mother, and motherhood makes all the difference. The juncture in which the commitment to my children's well-being encounters the rockets that endanger their lives is the place where I care only for myself and my own. When the sirens wail and the rockets fall I'm willing to kill those who endanger my children's lives.

In "Vietnam" Vislava Shimborska suggests that a mother is indifferent to politics, knowing only her children, ignoring everything else:

"Woman, what's your name?" "I don't know."
"How old are you? Where are you from?" "I don't know."
"Why did you dig that burrow?" "I don't know."
"How long have you been hiding?" "I don't know."
"Why did you bite my finger?" "I don't know."
"Don't you know that we won't hurt you?" "I don't know."
"Whose side are you on?" "I don't know."
"This is war, you've got to choose." "I don't know."
"Does your village still exist?" "I don't know."
"Are those your children?" "Yes."

However, indifference breads evil. Sometimes you have to choose sides in order to ensure your children's survival in the broadest sense of the word. Taking this newly discovered murderous instinct to its end might mean that my six-year-old son will have to go to war in the not-so-far future in order to protect a new generation of Israeli children.

In "In Praise of Feeling Bad about Yourself" Shimborska writes:

The buzzard never says it is to blame.
The panther wouldn't know what scruples mean.
When the piranha strikes, it feels no shame.
If snakes had hands, they'd claim their hands were clean.
A jackal doesn't understand remorse.
Lions and lice don't waver in their course.
Why should they, when they know they're right?
Though hearts of killer whales may weigh a ton,
in every other way they're light.
On this third planet of the sun
among the signs of bestiality
a clear conscience is Number One.

I do not wish to be an unscrupulous panther. And yet, I do not wish to live under constant threats of rockets. Uncompromising statements such as "the solution to this conflict is the destruction of Israel" make me wonder whether peaceful ideals should be put aside while the war is raging. Dead people with clear conscience do not sign peace agreements.

I have no clear solution to offer. I write to explore the meaning and implication of this complex situation in which nobody is an entirely free agent, yet no-one is an absolute victim.

[Both poems were translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanaugh]

Roses

The roses in my garden are blooming under significant-other's tender care. One-year-old comes to the flowers. She reaches out to tear the petals. I tell her: "no, love, not with your hands, with your nose… like this… smell". I bend over towards the flowers, kneeling next to her, taking a deep breath. I smell three roses: white, blood-red and pink-orange. She is all smiles… laughing, she buries her little nose and face in the colorful petals… smelling noisily… happily… The sun is bright… the flowers seem shiny… I wonder whether white roses smell differently than blood-red or pink-orange…

When I get up, I notice a rose still nestling in the coolness of the shadows… not yet touched by the sun… it is sprinkled with due… kitsch image, only this one is real… round drops of moisture frozen on the petals… is this rose 'real'?... I dare not touch it… the surreal spell might be broken…

The next day, I bid the rose good morning… the petals are burned by the sun… brownish at the edge… curling towards their death… Other roses are covered with due… the name of the grey-pink roses comes to mind: "rose-ashes"…

Tonight, as I rock one-year-old into sleep, my baby cuddles in my arms all warm and tender… she babbles sweet baby words that join into a melody… when I take her to bed a thought comes floating: is happiness a question? Happiness is.

[Originally written in August 2003]

What if the gate remains closed?

There's this myth: in search for a teacher, a community, you sit by a gate for three days and three nights… then, when all hopes and dreams have died, when only waiting remains, you are invited in to join teacher and sangha, to walk a path, no longer on your own…

But, what if the gate remains closed? What if the road stretches before you, barren and lonely?

Then, the world is your playground… no longer attached to fear and wishes, you are free to roam the earth, to touch the sky… loneliness is but a state of mind…

Where Are You?

Took the kids from kindergarten. Three-year-old insisted we should go to the swings. Five-year-old wanted to go to his friend. I needed to get to the post-office before closing time to mail a letter, and pay a long overdue bill.
"How have I fallen? Where has my peace of mind gone to?", the voices of silent horror shrieked in me.
"YOUR peace of mind?!", the clown awoke in appalled jest.
"Where are you now? Right Now?", asked the tender voice of mindfulness.

Talked to the kids. Explained necessities. Hugged and kissed… got some ice-cream to soften the trip to the post-office.

Letter mailed, bill paid, we made our choice of dinner at the mall. Among the hustle and bustle of people talking, shouting, laughing, shopping, I found a haven in the bounty of my noodles plate… the sheer joy of quenching hunger and thirst. Peace in the midst of the loud palace of mammon.

Sometimes my stomach gets the better of me.

De Profundis

I woke up with the wish-I-was-gone mood. Sat on my meditation cushion and breathed. Just sitting. Just breathing.
This yearning to crawl into a dark place and vanish, should I look into it? Observe its subtle movements? Isn't it dangerous? Might I not drown? Lose myself within this dark profundity?
An image came. I was diving in a dark ocean. Endless darkness… empty space all around me. There was a light someplace below. I swam towards it. While swimming, I suddenly noticed I'm well equipped with a diving suit, an air balloon, a mask. Why should you worry? I asked.
Suddenly, it was not so important to reach the light, to come out of the dark depth. There was beauty in the free-floating, empty space.