Baizhang asked, "What is the crucial thing about this practice?"
     Great Ancestor Ma replied, "It's just the place where you let go of your body and your life."

A few hours ago I gathered up the dedications that had been placed on the altar of the Vast Refuge Sangha at the cadet chapel over the past month, as I do each month at the time of the full moon. The dedications come from members of the community as well as visitors who are just passing through. It's always interesting and touching to read the wide array of what is offered, people sharing what is most in their hearts and on their minds: my grandpa; Marcus; Misty & Britt; Paris; for Mom; Karim Ahmed, Motaz Ahmed; all my loved ones & family; peace in Syria; my hopes & dreams, fulfill my potential; my dad; Beirut; for Ribs, my dead cat; Nadia Thompson :-( ; my whole family. There are also dedications in handwriting I can't read and languages I don't know, and it doesn't matter. The altar welcomes whatever comes, not requiring it to be anything other that what it is, not needing to know its story or where it is hoped things will go from here - simply receiving, holding, present, abiding. Welcoming, welcoming, welcoming...

My life feels like it is always such an altar, open to receive and welcome whatever the world places upon it, meeting, holding and abiding with these things, wondering what it may be able to offer and how it can help. In these particularly tumultuous and challenging times of late, though, the poignancy and importance of this altar-life comes to bear, mostly through noticing the desire to close it off due to the pain and sorrow brought by the things that are landing on it these days. Yet deep down I know this is not the route to take, I know before I can offer what is needed and help with the transformation of it I must welcome, receive, and attend to what is coming to meet me. I am curious about the stories that come along with these things and wonder about what each of them is wanting and hoping for, yet ultimately I'm not too interested in these specifics or trying to figure out or satisfy each of them. I'm more interested in being like that altar which provides a space for all of these things to exist side-by-side, none of them more or less important than the other, gathering them all together and moving into what is next without rejecting any.

This is what I find myself grateful for on this Thanksgiving Eve: this complex, complicated, astounding, devastating, wondrous, beautiful, impossible life, and for the living of it. My heart is heavy and my mind is weary, and at the same time they are imbued with the brightness of joy and love, and in this there is no conflict but rather a sense of completeness, for this is what it means to be alive. I find that I can trust this, and a sense of gratitude arises, not contingent upon or connected to anything in particular. It just is. Being in this gratitude, things remain just as complicated and impossible as before. I still don't know where things are going and how they'll end up, and I don't have any strong ideas of how to navigate my way through it all. But I'm showing up for it, and I'm taking part in it, and I'm giving myself to the transformation of what is now into what is next and beyond, endlessly.

As I do with the dedications that come along each month, I'll soon head out to offer them up in flames under the full moon, shining brightly. The now-empty altar will become full again, and the cycle of welcoming and receiving and offering continues along, just as the moon continues along in its own way, from full to dark to full again - letting go of all it has become to be the living of all that it is.

​​Earlier today I walked out to a path near our home and sat on a bench for a little while. Though it was a sunny day with a clear blue sky, swift winds were blowing through steadily, making things chilly and crisp. I purposefully set out with little protection – no hat, no gloves, a modest button-up shirt – so I could be in and feel the day more fully. Thanks to the sun, most of the snow from yesterday’s storm was gone, although a bit of it remained in areas the sun had yet to or simply couldn’t reach ( I was also aware that this just is how it was in my small corner of the world, knowing [and later seeing for myself] that not too far away the snow still dominates the landscape, much deeper, being melted ever so slowly but steadily). When the winds were calm I enjoyed the warmth and comfort it offered. Even when the gusts picked up the warmth could still be felt, but it was certainly diminished by the bitter, biting cold. And even when I couldn’t feel it, I could see it shining in the dry grasses whipping around and in the glow of golden leaves tumbling by. I got chilled and at times a shiver or two came over me, and my hands and ears, being exposed, became particularly icy. As I was sitting there, abiding and observing, a homeless couple came by, asking for help. From what I had on hand, I kept just what I needed for myself and gave the rest away. During those brief moments there was no awareness of the sun and the wind and my cold hands, just the activity of meeting and talking and offering.
 
This is very much how I have been feeling these past days in the wake of the storms that are the attacks on Paris, Beirut, Bagdad and other places yet to be (if ever) known. Being with what remains in their aftermath, I’m choosing to insulate myself as little as possible with my opinions or explanations or judgments, my heart-mind as open and vulnerable as I can allow. In this, I am buffeted and battered from many directions by gusts and gales fueled by ignorance, hatred, fear, anger, stinginess, prejudice, confusion, certainty, leaving me cold, chilled and weary. There are also times of calm and warmth, people offering words and stories of encouragement, understanding, reason, clarity, insight, infused with humanity and love. Throughout it all the sun still shines, providing warmth and comfort when those gusts subside; being noticed, albeit momentarily, when catching a glimpse of a golden leaf tumbling by in those fierce winds that quickly obscure it; remaining intact despite the storms that roll through. And throughout it all I’m giving what I can, which is mostly listening, presence, attention, a conversation here and there, wondering, looking, not turning away, waiting to see what is needed, ready to offer what I am able.
 
Now the sun is setting, the cold is growing, the day is turning to night and different light will shine in that same clear sky, some of it reflected, some of it sparkling and clear. And tomorrow the sun will come again, making its long, slow arc from horizon to horizon. There may be less wind, there may be more; additional storms will certainly come, and there will be days without a single cloud in the sky. Regardless, behind, throughout and beyond it all, that same sun will be shining and offering its warmth, generously and impartially. I wish to be in it, I wish to nourish and share it, I wish to shine and to receive the shining all around, so that all may know this warmth, comfort and peace.
 
As happens quite often, today my "Little Zen Calendar" offers words that seem so strikingly apropos:
 
“You take it all in. You let the pain of the world touch your heart and you turn it into compassion.” Gyalwa Karmapa
 
Reflecting on this quote, a question seems to naturally arise: “How do I turn it into compassion?” And a response I find arising just as naturally is: “Taking it all in is how you turn it into compassion.” There is more to this than just circular reasoning, and it is not at all advocating a passive stance of acceptance as a way of dealing with things. At the heart of it is the activity of unselfing, and I see this happening in two ways.
 
The first way is in the realm of how we try to protect our hearts. For some people or in certain situations, the choice is not to let anything in, regardless of whether it is beneficial or harmful, knowing that doing so leaves us vulnerable and open to risk, a choice likely rooted in past experiences of pain and heartache. A more typical and widely-practiced approach is to only open our hearts to the positive, those things that bring us joy and happiness and nourishment, avoiding the negative, darker, heavier things that could disrupt our sense of peace and calm. It’s a perfectly reasonable and natural approach to take and certainly seems healthy overall, but when you look more closely, it’s fundamentally about excluding a significant portion of life and the world as a whole. All in all, no matter how we endeavor to protect our hearts, doing so is essentially a self-focused project that develops and maintains a limited territory, out of which can only come limited compassion. “Taking it all in” moves us beyond this territory, relinquishing its boundaries and constraints, widening the focus and reach of our hearts, and furthers the unselfing that leads to compassionate action.
 
Relinquishing the limited territory of our individual hearts transforms the central question of a compassionate response from “What can I do?” to “What is needed and how can I help?” The difference may seem slight, yet it is also quite profound. The former question focuses too much on me and places the responsibility more squarely on my shoulders, whereas the latter puts the focus outside of myself and shifts me into a relationship of partnering with as opposed to trying to fix something. From there I begin to realize it’s not up to me alone to figure out what to do, and I can release the anxiety, pressure and self-concern of trying to get it right with the appropriate measure of compassion. This partnering has a call-and-response quality to it, asking me to simply show up and be available, making it possible for compassionate action to emerge of itself from this place of being receptive and listening and responding; letting go of self-concern frees up my energy and broadens my view, enabling me to be more intimately connected with and responsive to the whole of life. By not restricting or being selective about what I allow to touch my heart, not only do I discover I have an infinite capacity to hold in it whatever I meet, I also find that I have limitless resources to depend upon and access, and I can let compassion itself lead me along without trying to harness and control it.
 
“Taking it all in” also addresses those poisonous winds I mentioned above. It doesn’t matter what side I take, what my politics are, where I align myself spiritually – wherever I find myself along these and other spectrums, adhering strongly to my beliefs and ideas and opinions limits my scope of and connection to reality. I may say: “I listen to the other side of things, I take it all in, I’m open to other people's views and ways of life,” when in actuality everything is passing through pre-established filters for the most part, sorted and judged, then accepted or rejected. To truly take it all in, one must become aware of the filters, the biases, the tendencies that he or she has developed and fortified over the course of time and experience, then be willing to hold them loosely, set them aside and step forward to meet the world as it is, face-to-face. To do so is to have a willingness to be vulnerable and uncertain, to encounter the unknown and the unknowable, and to keep making your way along, eyes and heart open. Yes, it can be frightening and unsettling and discomforting, and yet it seems so very essential. It calls to mind one of my favorite quotes:
 
“People wish to be settled; only as far as they are unsettled is there any hope for them.” –Ralph Waldo Emerson
 
In one of those conversations I had, a friend asked: “How are you keeping your peace in all of this?” I considered it for a few moments and found myself replying: “I’m not. All of this is my peace.” It was one of those wonderful moments of saying something before knowing what I meant, then getting to be curious about it. First off, I realized I didn’t have any thought of “my peace” before the question was asked, and that even now there is no such thought. Considering it further, I see that I am not creating and upholding a peace that is separate or disconnected from what is, nor am I insisting on it feeling, looking or behaving a certain way, nor am I trying to hold it still or keep it unstained. It is a peace made of a willingness to be buffeted and battered by the winds, to be cold, chilled and weary; a willingness to receive the generous warmth of the shining sun, to feel comforted, encouraged and enlivened; a willingness to show up again and again, exposed and vulnerable, stepping into life; a willingness to trust the unknown and being uncertain, to reach out a hand and collaborate with the whole of life, co-creating what is to come.
 
To bring this post to a close so I can step more fully into the life of this day, I offer this:
 
May we be unsettled. May we be uncertain. May we hold loosely what has been and what should be, leaning more fully into and moving forward with what is. May we not try so much to be compassionate as to be compassion. May we be less and less ourselves, and ever increasingly who we are as we journey along together.