“Learn as if you were not reaching your goal, and as if you were afraid of missing it,” –the Analects of Confucious.

As I wrap up this semester, both as teacher and student, I am pausing. Stepping back. Clearing my mind. Re-centering myself.

The precious path of discovery is wide open.

I am voracious. A consumer of knowledge, a lover of information–but I will not forget that learning isn’t everything. Some things can’t be learned, only experienced (though experience is a form of learning in the end, anyway). Give me more to gobble and absorb, and I’m ready for it.

During this return to school, I have revisited things I thought I had mastered and traveled to new places. I’ve uncovered new things, new techniques, new things about myself. I have enjoyed seeing fellow students have epiphanies with projects–ideas for paint, brush, and word. Eagerly whipping out new creations, in a shared environment. Nothing beats collaboration and interaction with wild, open minds.

From the other side of the podium, I’ve watched as people who stifled creativity through most of their adult lives, in favor of “responsibility,” found their creative inner children again, splashing paint, tracing shapes, and expressing landscapes in weird colors–pink mountains and purple clouds. Fearlessly. I hope they all continue playing with art and reconnecting with that expression they thought they had lost. I encouraged them to DO and TRY, not to be afraid of wanting to express themselves. Make some “me” time, and do it.

Fine Art Building, Cell Phone Cam

I’m also the kind of person who can look through a college catalog and say, “I’ll take that, and that, and that…” so I have to reign it back. LOL. Focus. But the joy of learning is still there, hanging out. If I win the lottery, you can guess what I’ll do with a chunk of it. A collection of degrees.

Self Portrait Reflected in Gallery Photo, Cell Phone Cam

As I prepare for next semester, I have cut back a bit on the classes I am teaching, in order to focus on learning. I am still hosting three art classes, but will renew the rest of the courses in summer. This is a good thing. It’s about opening the mind, filling the belly, and digging in.

I am re-thinking my entire art focus. Before now, I was more concerned with producing “product” to sell at art shows and in galleries. I grew up in that world. Both of my parents traveled all over California, selling art, hitting shows and events, producing work, and cutting their bottom line. As a kid, I would be in the back of the booth, playing with newfound friends, children of other art show folks. As I got older, I helped them sell, helped them do the show circuit, and went into it as an adult–but now, I’m shifting gears in a healthy way. I am so excited to share it all, I can’t even gush it all here.

Art for the sake of art, the way poetry for the sake of poetry works, is key. It has to be that which must come out, that which is tearing up the inside of your soul and has to be painted, sprayed, printed, or otherwise spewed. Arts & crafts shows? We’ll see. Keep an eye out for my updated artist statement (still working on it). Product vs. Passion. Passion wins out.

Which Direction? Cell Phone Cam

So, I’m excited about learning, teaching, and I feel like I’m on the verge of something big–a new direction, a new focus. Everything I’ve learned before has just been leading up to this point.

Sitting down. Clearing out. Learning the way. Easy as that.

Japanese Garden, photo by me!

(All of the photos taken by me–I have more to share, too! You’ll see them here and there).

I had the best day I’ve ever had here in Albuquerque last Thursday. Yep. For real.

The kind of simple, radiant, refreshing day that comes once in a while, when everything falls into place and flows naturally. Autumn clarity. Natural zen. This is Tao.

On a whim, Ken suggested we go to the Albuquerque Botanical Gardens and Aquarium. It’s not a huge place. Maybe the best in the state, but certainly not the best in the country. We’ve been to the Monterey Bay Aquarium, one of the best in the world, so this whole thing wasn’t about how fancy or spectacular the destination was. It was about the day being slow, calm, meditative, and new.

It went beyond “yeah, the BioPark is cool. I love it.” It was oneness with all things.

We called our good friend Robert, also a fan of the capricious and random. We headed down without cameras actually (these photos were taken on our return trip Sunday).  The day was pleasantly warm, with cool seams–the perfect walking, strolling, thinking weather.

Armed with a sketchpad, we hit the Aquarium first. Scuttling sturgeons and mud-gazing carp became gestural lines–fuel for future brush paintings. Stingrays effortlessly gliding just above the rocky surface reminded me to find the flow in overcoming obstacles. Their sleek bodies drifting, gliding, always moving, silent. There’s no argument there, no bullshit pettiness or backstabbing gossip casseroles, just natural movement. Keeping yourself going as you soar above the jumbled rocks.

Some of you already know my love of jellyfish. I paint them frequently. Capturing the light, almost non-existent jelliness is challenging and rewarding. They didn’t have very many jellies there, but that’s no matter. It was the perfect thing, at that moment, at that time. The jelly room was dime and comforting, like the interior of an ancient cave. A column of softly glowing Moon Jellies, glistening and drifting was centerstage. They’re not concerned about politics. They could care less about new cars, hair dye, prestige, designer fashion snippiness. I drew hundreds of thumbnails of them, drifting, floating. When we thought some were dead–they moved again each time. Always surprsing.

There seemed to be a weighty, natural sound to their silence.

A tub of chrysaora jellyfish, one of my favorites, was also present–backlit with plankton buzzing everywhere. I had never realized that I had not observed plankton up close, or had not actually realized I was doing so. The excited energy of the tiny lives, paired with the deliberate, smooth chrysaora was enchanting and balancing.

The walk through the botanical gardens was equally refreshing. We discovered a “Moorish Garden,” which we now call our backyard porch. We got lost in a children’s maze (scary for kids, I think), which had wild, giant fake veggies and many varieties of bamboo. We spent a huge chunk of time there, decompressing. I keep thinking now, every regular day, that I want to go back to the Moorish Garden and sit.

The Path, photo by me!

The Japanese garden was enjoyable as well, though not totally authentic–but who cares? Sketching random plants, pointing out odd things, and admiring the koi. We spent a long time here, sitting close to the water. A koi with blue eye shadow befriended Ken and kept coming back to see why Ken wasn’t tossing him bread.

Koi (curious about us), photo by me!

Japanese Garden, photo by me

More Koi, photo by me

The indoor desert and Mediterranean gardens were as “hot as Malaysia,” or so Robert declared. I held a huge millipede in my hands–he was shiny, black, and seemed unreal, very lightweight. He gently coiled (he was afraid), and then unraveled and used all of his legs to re-orient himself. Everything moving in unison.

By the time we left, we felt refreshed. Renewed. it was a personal Zen Center. A re-centering experience.

(Of course, there was funny stuff too–like our battle to stay 50 leauges ahead of any screaming nose-pickers, but you know! LOL!).

We went back again this weekend and spent several hours feeding the koi, watching their movements, personality, and faces.

After the gardens, we decided to eat somewhere expensive. It reminded us of San Francisco (I mean that fondly. In fact, the place here in town was actually more expensive than similar places in The City). Creole Pasta with Cream Sauce. Proper customer service in Albuquerque, imagine that! We were in Old Town then, and walked on foot into the little village, so commercialized and crazy, but fun.

The sun was getting low in the sky and cheesy flickering chili lights and neon signs made shimmering impressions.

All those piles of New Mexico shot glasses, hot chili suckers, and squash blossom jewelry–the perfect, funky end to a day of Tao.

On Sunday, we returned, this time with bread for the koi. Check them out!

Pushy Koi Wanting Bread, photo by me

From the 4th floor Fine Arts Library, the southern part of the city spreads out like a brick and treetop blanket, dipping here and there, allowing apartments and powerlines and flapping laundry on balconies to peek through. As the sun is slipping low in the sky, the desert is wide and far. As if it has no end. The edge of the curving planet.

I can see the divet the Rio Grande has punched into the valley’s base through the side-front windows. Cottonwoods punctuate the red banks and mountains formed during volcanic disturbances arch and curve; a misty backdrop. The mist, likely dirt. Coyotes, road runners, prarie dogs, wind scorpions inhabit the flat gray-yellow of the desert farther beyond.

I can see onto the tops of buildings. Granulated roof-stuff, like granola and cinnamon sugar, decorate the flat, human-tended surfaces. You can imagine hopping from one rooftop to another, light-footed, so the inhabitants don’t even know you’re there, yet you might be able to catch the scent of simmering spaghetti from a cocked kitchen window if you leapt to the right spot.

Seeing the mix of human-made and nautral is eye-opening from this height. Many of these buildings and plants are new, erected only a decade or so ago. Some are much older, having seen entire generations pad past on sidewalks flecked and cracked. I think of how the trees and buildings and streets will grow, change, morph, evolve over time–how they have since they began, how they will continue after I’m gone, how they have always continued in some form. How the natural flow and flux is the most innate thing there is.

Like Shiprock, which will one day be eroded down to dust, all of these things will change–yet the process of change remains the same.

Curving Plum Branch, originally uploaded by plasticpumpkin.

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]]> http://plasticpumpkin.wordpress.com/2009/08/28/daily-musings-8-28-09-simple-things/feed/ 4 plasticpumpkin http://plasticpumpkin.wordpress.com/2009/08/25/traditional-buddhist-story-letting-go/ http://plasticpumpkin.wordpress.com/2009/08/25/traditional-buddhist-story-letting-go/#comments Tue, 25 Aug 2009 18:28:38 +0000 plasticpumpkin http://plasticpumpkin.wordpress.com/?p=605 ]]>

This is a traditional Buddhist tale:

Two Buddhist monks from the same monastery were traveling through a heavy forest. The older, more experienced monk walked in the front while his younger counterpart walked behind. As they traveled alongside a river, they came upon a beautiful young woman. She appeared troubled and concerned, standing at the river’s edge looking across.

As they approached, she called out to them for assistance. She needed to cross the river—but the river was far too wide, deep, and strong-moving. She wasn’t strong enough to fight her way across, nor was she tall enough to keep her head above water. She didn’t know what she was going to do to get across, but she defiantely had to cross.

The two monks were from a particularly strict, rules-driven sect. Their temple rules and regulations disallowed any contact with women; the monks weren’t even supposed to look at women, much less talk to them.

The experienced monk promptly walked over, picked up the young woman, and carried her in his arms safely across the fast-flowing river. He put her down on the opposite bank, where she graciously thanked him for his kindness and help.

The monk returned across the river and continued on his way—but the younger monk was astonished! How could his experienced elder even think about looking at the woman, much less actually carry her in his arms! How could he get close to her?

They continued walking through the forest, the older monk in front of the younger. They walked for a mile—with the less experienced monk’s frustration getting worse by the minute. When he could take it no more, he stopped in his tracks and shouted at the older monk.

“How could you do such a thing! How could you dare look at that woman, much less touch her and talk to her?! You know we’re not supposed to have contact with women. It’s strictly against the temple’s rules. How could you?!”

The older monk, having felt the younger monk’s building frustration, paused and turned around.

He smiled thoughtfully and said, “are you still carrying that woman with you? I put her down a mile ago.”

–Letting go. Yep. It’s important. Don’t forget it.

Daily Musings – 8/6/09 -
“The Joy of Serendipity”

In the early 90s, my mother and stepfather (her then recent “boyfriend”) went off on a long-term road trip to “find” themselves after my parents’ divorce.

When the house was sold, they bought a travel trailer and went off to tour places they’d never seen. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.”

Their exploration brought them to the middle of the Arizona desert, during the summertime–somewhere along I-40 between the few towns that populated the stretch. It was a beautiful area and they were enjoying the scenery when their travel trailer began acting funny.

The hulking beast of a vehicle fizzled out on the side of a rural road, after they’d left the freeway hoping to find a service station. My stepfather knew what was wrong, but hadn’t anticipated such a thing happening–and didn’t have the tools to fix it.

They were in the middle of nowhere; quiet and baking. After sitting for an hour, they deliberated on trying to hike back to the freeway to get help, or on going farther up the rural road. There were no call boxes in sight and nothing but shrubbery manzanitas in all other directions.

As we often get in enclosed-trouble situations, they got really worried. It was getting hotter and they weren’t sure what to do–so they figured they’d brave it and head back to the freeway. It was then that they noticed a beat-up old pickup truck roaring up the rural street. They had a hunch they should wait–and they were right. The truck pulled to a stop and a man in his fifties climbed out and asked them what was wrong.

After a short discussion, the stranger realized he had the part they needed right there in the back of his truck, amidst other equipment. The travel trailer was quickly repaired and they eagerly offered the stranger money, which he refused. They were back on their way in no time, feeling great.

Four years later, my stepfather’s mother moved to Kingman, Arizona for health reasons. She had gone through a terrible divorce from an abusive husband and was getting her life back together and attending college for the first time, as an older adult.

Everything went well for her. She wrote a long letter that November, telling her son she’d be coming back to see them for Thanksgiving–and that she had a surprise for them. She’d met a wonderful man. He was “the one” she’d been seeking her whole life.

Imagine their surprise when she arrived for Thanksgiving with the stranger that had rescued them from the desert heat.

Daily Musings – A Discovery – 7/30/09

I grew up in an old house, built in the late 1800s with add-ons from the 1950s.

It was located on the wild edge of a medium-sized city, in the Mojave Desert, just north of Los Angeles. The property was largely overgrown by trees and desert foliage.

My parents were never able to tame the foliage back (nor did they try very hard). It even had an old garage, built in the teens, that was designed for Model As (with a sunken floor upon which a mechanic could slide to get under the car). It was useless for modern vehicles.

It’s previous incarnation was a vineyard with a wagon stop for people passing across the Southern California desert. The only thing that remained from the vineyard days was a single, twisted, archaic green grape bush that stuck up out of the desert in a weird way. It produced bundles of grapes every year, without watering.

The yard was over an acre and my parents never did any landscaping, except for cactus and iris gardens near the entrance. The best thing about it was, as a kid, anything was possible amongst the wild plants and myriad of paths that wove through the tall brush. It took me years to explore every corner–finding everything from old iron soldiers and a stone and metal incinerator (filled with turn of the last century newspapers), to wild plants of every shape imaginable–clinging to some sort of underground water source, in contrast to the rest of the yellow, dry desert.

One summer I poked deeply into a stand of Chinese Elms at the far end of the property, where it met open desert. I had this strange feeling to push deeper through high yellow weeds to explore under the trees I’d never really gotten close to.

Underneath the biggest tree was a headless statue. It was seated calmly, back resting against the old trunk of the tree. It was whitish with a gray cast–a ceramic man in loose robes, with his chest exposed. His legs were crossed and his arms rested gently on his knees.

I remember jumping back for a second–startled to see a human form tucked under trees no one had been close to in years, especially since it had a gaping hollow neck where the head should be. Then curiosity and calm won out. I realized the head must be somewhere. Even as old and weathered as the ceramic statue looked, I just knew the head was nearby. It had to be. After all, why wouldn’t it be somewhere?

So, I scoured the desert. Outside of our property line, I crunched through dried bushes and stepped over the occasional rusted tin can. I walked in a straight line from the statue. Suddenly, I saw a soft, smooth face looking up at me from between two large bushes. It was the statue’s head, resting calmly on the ground with an amused smile.

I picked it up. It felt slightly chalky and was heavy for me (even though it was hollow). I gripped it like a heavy handball and brought it back to the statue.

The head had tight curls of hair like cake decorations all over it and it was slender and smiling. He had a dot in the middle of his forehead and the detail was smooth and simple. I crawled back through the bushes and placed the head back on the statue. It had broken off cleanly enough that it fit firmly.

The statue was complete.

I later showed it to my mom. I was excited about having put him back together and curious as to why he was tucked away so secretly. She had never seen the statue before and didn’t know how he had gotten there, but she was pretty sure he was a Buddha.

It most certainly was a Buddha. He was a Tibetan meditating Buddha (a Shakyamuni Buddha; not the chubby ones, but the slender, smiling Buddhas with a tightly rounded headpiece). How he ended up under that gnarled tree, overgrown by years of foliage, at the edge of open desert–I’ll never know.

Who put him there?  He was almost life-sized and similar statues made with new materials are high priced. Why did someone choose that tree? That spot? In that place? Under that old elm, on the old vineyard, at the old wagon stop…

Perhaps he was just there to be found.

We had a great Zen Storytelling class this evening. The story that stands out most to me after the fact is one called “Gift of insults.” It goes as follows:

There once lived a great warrior. Though quite old, he still was able to defeat any challenger. His reputation extended far and wide throughout the land and many students gathered to study under him.

One day an infamous young warrior arrived at the village. He was determined to be the first man to defeat the great master. Along with his strength, he had an uncanny ability to spot and exploit any weakness in an opponent. He would wait for his opponent to make the first move, thus revealing a weakness, and then would strike with merciless force and lightning speed. No one had ever lasted with him in a match beyond the first move.

Much against the advice of his concerned students, the old master gladly accepted the young warrior’s challenge. As the two squared off for battle, the young warrior began to hurl insults at the old master. He threw dirt and spit in his face. For hours he verbally assaulted him with every curse and insult known to mankind. But the old warrior merely stood there motionless and calm. Finally, the young warrior exhausted himself. Knowing he was defeated, he left feeling shamed.

Somewhat disappointed that he did not fight the insolent youth, the students gathered around the old master and questioned him. “How could you endure such an indignity? How did you drive him away?”

“If someone comes to give you a gift and you do not receive it,” the master replied, “to whom does the gift belong?”

Interesting, huh? A few reactions to this story:

–If you do not receive someone’s gift of insults, you haven’t been insulted.

–(similar to above) – if you don’t accept someone’s insulting or mean words, they don’t affect you. They bounce right back at the attacker.

–People who go around picking fights for the sake of ego, self-perceived importance, etc. are bringing harm upon themselves

–the master doesn’t see the need to stand up against someone, in a fight which is not necessary. He merely defends and deflects by choosing not to participate.

When I graduated from UC Berkeley, there was a fellow student, then 89 years old, who was finishing her 6th Bachelor’s degree. She had studied a wide range of subjects–history, English, anthropology, art… and also had more than one Master’s. She was awarded a special certificate for honorable academic achievements. I like to think of it as an eternal student award. When she gave her speech, she was asked what she was going to do next.

Her answer? “Get another degree!”

She was a student of life. She formally received awards for her studies–but you don’t have to sign up for every degree program under the sun to keep your mind open. Your thoughts ready to receive. To keep that fire of learning inside.

I know you’ve met people who think they know everything. Either about one subject, as a book-thumping expert with rigid citations, or as someone who thinks they’ve learned everything about EVERY subject. They loudly assert themselves. Announce everything they think they now. Belittle others for seeming to know less. They might be co-workers, family members. We might even be like that ourselves sometimes. But you know the type of person I’m talking about.

In America, many high school students think they’ve “finished” once they graduate. That they are now equipped with everything they ever need to know (and everything YOU need to know), simply because they have a high school diploma.

In reality, they have only just begun.

Lao Tzu says that “one who talks doesn’t know. One who knows doesn’t talk.”  This is not a 2,500 year old request for people to clam up and sit down. In reality, it’s a reminder that the loud, chest-thumping guy who tells you that you don’t know how to swing a golf club, or that you’re clearly stupid for never having done this or seen that, is the kind of guy who talks loudly, but doesn’t know. He talks right from the ego. Right from the idea that he knows all, sees all, and is better than all.

He is most definitely *not* an eternal student.

The eternal student finds that there’s something to learn in every situation. Everywhere. At the movies. At a friend’s house. Stuck on a bus downtown. Watching bugs on a branch. The eternal student can find delight in opening a college catalog, wanting to take every class in the entire thing. Only wishing there were enough time. The eternal student learns from their mistakes, too. From when they lose a game of chess. Burn an egg. Hit their finger with a hammer.

They are like an empty cup–ready to be filled with anything. There’s room for plenty more. New ideas. New hobbies. New concepts. They tackle each day as an expedition. They explore the world around them and are never afraid to admit when they don’t know something.

By admitting they don’t know everything, they instantly understand a whole lot more.

The Tao Teh Ching reads:

47

Without opening your door,
you can open your heart to the world.
Without looking out your window,
you can see the essence of the Tao.

The more you know,
the less you understand.

The Master arrives without leaving,
sees the light without looking,
achieves without doing a thing.

If learning can be so fulfilling–why is Lao Tzu saying that the more you learn, the less you understand? Isn’t that bad? Like an uphill climb you can’t win?

Don’t think of it as better or worse, win or lose.

Lao Tzu says this because it’s true. The more you read and learn, the more you realize there’s so much more to learn and experience. You think you’ve mastered Photoshop–then you grab a new book and find new techniques you’ve never heard of. More to learn. A few new paths to explore. The more you think you’ve mastered about cooking, the more you find there are spices you’ve never tried. Dishes you’ve never heard of.

And this is not a bad thing.

The eternal student would most definitely find that the more they study, the more doors open which contain things they haven’t even begun to learn.

Finding that the more you learn, the more you realize you don’t know keeps you energized as an eternal student. When you realize that “not knowing” is NOT bad, a million doors open.

And when you remember to keep ego in check and remind yourself that in the end, learning doesn’t make you better or worse than anyone else, you won’t become the guy who brags about his golf skills to bored people in line at Wal-Mart.

As the eternal student, you also realize that books don’t take the place of learning through experience. You can read all about riding a horse, but you won’t know how to do it until you physically try it. You have all the answers inside you, yet the questions that are out there are equally fascinating.

I try to be an eternal student in everything I do. There’s always something I can learn. I will never tire of taking classes and listening and watching. I also won’t forget that there are some things which can be learned by looking inward, but with the same open mind I apply to studying things on the outside.