Happy Groundhog Day 2018

Well, it seems that Punxsutawney Phil, the official representative of the rodent family Sciurdae belonging to the group of large ground squirrels otherwise known as Groundhogs, has spoken. Or not spoken. Or has had a gentleman with an Amish-styled beard, bifocals, tuxedo and black stove pipe hat speak for him, once again.

Phil, that “Seer or seers, the prognosticator of prognosticators” according to his black-clad spokesman, emerged from his cozy den somewhere in Southeastern Pennsylvania early this morning, and, “After glancing an appreciate glance to his faithful followers in attendance, proclaimed, ‘Many shadows do I see, six more weeks of winter it must be!”. With all due respect to Phil, I prefer being buried in snow and huddled against icy cold in February and have found this winter season to be a balmy bust. Note: this article was originally written in 2012, a period of non-Winter for much of Midwest America. Currently, we are frozen over with a half- foot of fresh snow and holding strong at fourteen degrees. 

As to Groundhogs, or their official Day rather, its cultural and spiritual significance  is somewhat limited. The experiences of egocentric weatherman Phil Connors, however, played by Bill Murray in the 1993 film of the same name, does offer some insight.  In the film, reliving February 2nd over and over again at first drives Phil to hedonism; with no fear of log-term consequences, he seduces women, steals money, drives recklessly and is eventually thrown in jail (Groundhog Day has entered common use in English as a reference to an unfavorable situation that seems to repeat itself). After realizing that even suicide can’t save him from the ongoing time loop, Phil has a change of heart and leverages his strange time situation to better himself to learn, among other things, how to play the piano, sculpt ice and speak French.

Groundhog Day according to an online resource “is now considered a tale of self-improvement which emphasizes the need to look inside and realize that the only satisfaction  in life comes from turning inward and concerning oneself with others rather than concentrating solely on one’s own wants and desires. According to  my online source, the phrase also ‘has become a shorthand illustration for the concept of spiritual trasncendence (!)’ As such, the film has become a favorite of Buddhists because they see its themes of selflessness and rebirth as a reflection of their own spiritual messages. It has also, in the Catholic tradition, been seen as a representation of Purgatory, even dubbed by some religious leaders as the ‘most spiritual film of our time.'”  Oy, who knew?

A few things thing I do know, and these from personal experience: youth’s biggest folly is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting some different result. When I consider some of the old, worn-out, rutted roads I've walked, hanging out with the same people in the places expecting some different vibe, I’m thinking I can  learn a thing or two from Punxsutawney Phil, the man-varmint who had a change of heart, and maybe choose a similar upward road for my life and future. Also knowing that groundhogs are Woodchucks, I adore Woodchucks, understanding that spiritually they are symbols of hard work, the Woodchuck Nation always being ready to work hard, doing all they would chuck if they could chuck, in order to reach their goals and be well-rewarded for their earthy efforts.  

And It Stoned Me To My Soul

“…Stoned me just like goin' Home…And it stoned me…” In a final twist of fate, singing Van Morrison’s ode to quasi-mystical childhood experiences, I took a right on 63rd street last night, and with one final bend in the road, I was home. Home, after driving a hundred other roads singing a hundred other songs, on a spiritual odyssey that carried me over six thousand miles, 32 days, and 12 united states. Beginning on a white Christmas morning in the tiny central Michigan town of Concord, the journey lead me through Kansas City, Missouri, to the San Luis Valley of Colorado, across the hardpan of Arizona’s Sonoran Desert and happily paused on the Pacific coastline of Ranchos Palos Verde in southern California, where we flipped a proverbial bitch and took it East - bound and down - all the way back. Along the jagged route there were people and places visited, nine days of noble silence during a meditation retreat with my Teacher the Mighty Shinzen Young, a Ceremony in a sweat lodge surrounded by Joshua Trees, art and treasures procured and prayers proffered . Finally spitting crushed concrete, punching it up the hill to my house, I felt a flood of positivity, surrounding me, uplifting me, welcoming back to a familiar place made new. “Subtle voices in the wind, hear The Truth they're telling, a World begins where this road ends… See...You’ve… left it all behind… Far behind…”  Enveloped back in the winter quiet of my country homestead, the stove fire sharply snapping, land and sky blanched a serene winter white, all is well. Considering I left on December 25th and returned just over one month later, my tree is still up and silently twinkling, thinking we'll keep Christmas going all year here. All is calm and bright. 

With a glance back, my month-long, cross-country jaunt may not at first appear to be a working vacation.  But around here business is personal, the reason for the long ride clearly tied to my efforts as Chief Creative Officer of The Higher Haven Retreat Center. The unhealable can be healed here, Miracles have and will occur, and Ceremonial purification - rooted in the spiritual practices of America’s indigenous people - is one of a few powerful modalities of alternative therapies we offer on The Farm. Although somewhat of a modern day mystery, whenever the workings of the Inipi or Sweatlodge Ceremony are explained, one begins by referencing the Lodge-istics as I like to say, as in: "You begin by taking stones and heating them in a fire". But not just any stones.  The diamonds of the Ceremony world, the most high quality, semi-precious stones are of the porous, volcanic variety, small chunks of ancient lava flows that have cooled to a warm, beaver-like, sepia brown color of dark desert sand. And the desert, namely the Sonoran Desert of the American Southwest, is where you find ‘em, mounds of them, mountains even. Like a good rock, they’re stable, firm and dependable, these Grandmas and Grandpas being the Grand Masters of the material world. Plus, when it comes to upholding a tradition, it’s always g'ut to do it the way you was taught. 

Sure feels good to back in my own bed, attending the Sunday Church of The New York Times. Foxes have holes and birds have nests, and I too have been super blessed with a fortress of peace in which I lay down my achey head and body. After long-ass twelve hour plus days on the road, everything starts to come unhinged, a bit blurry, and a late at night, a little hallucinatory. The road becomes an endless typewriter ribbon stretched long, black and yellow to the horizon, a dotted, lined sheet – a flat, thin, endlessly rolling expanse. Stanzas of poetry in green and white creative blips wicket past, from Last Chance, Colorado to Sweet Home, Texas to Truth or Consequences, New Mex. There are words and  pictures, too, images in my minds-eye of CO’s Great Sand Dunes Natl. Monument, OK’s Gilcrease Museum's  Native art collection, and AZ’s hundred year-old Sagauro Cacti Standing people, along with many, many more. Unbuckled, feeling a bit more unbound, I’m back home, with a truckload of healing stones and new stories to tell. 

Zen Center'd

Alternative titles for this tale were Zen Samurai Boot Camp, Zen Sharp Stick to The Eye, and Zen Iron Maiden, not harkening to the heavy metal band but rather the heavy metal medieval device of physical torment. The more edifying heading came about after finding an inner place of psychological clarity inspired by an outer place of physical practice - Arizona’s Haku Un Ji Zen Center. While The Temple of the White Cloud may sound exquisite, Haku Un Ji is in reality a modest home with a small backyard Zendo or meditation hall in a quiet, residential neighborhood of suburban Tempe. Upholding the martial tradition of Lin-Chi - a prominent 10th century Chinese Master -  Japanese Rinzai Zen Buddhism focuses on Kensho, or “seeing one’s true nature” with an emphasis on ongoing mind-training to embody the free-functioning of wisdom in everyday life. But before you can see a damn thing or there's even a whisper of wisdom, there’s negotiating the sharp severities of Zen practice.

Up at 4 a.m. Saturday morning to drive cross town and be in the hall and on the cushion by 5:30, I took part in a One-Day Zazenkai, in Japanese literally meaning “to come together for meditation”, often the name given to a short Zen Buddhist retreat. Saturday’s day-long Sit consisted of a number of Zazen periods - sitting meditation sessions - of roughly thirty to fifty minutes, coupled with short, ten-minute sessions of walking meditation, called Kinhin, good for rescuing hips and legs from complete implosion. Thankfully, these were sitting period lesser in intensity and duration than a Sesshin - literally “touching the heart-mind” - a period of strong sitting that can go on for days or even a week. Along with chanting and a Samu or physical work period done with mindfulness, we also practiced a meditative form of eating called  Ōryōki, meaning “Just enough” that  emphasizes awareness practice by abiding to a strict order of precise movements. Bowls are set out in a customary pattern, chop stick points hover just off the table, and hand movements communicate, “Yes, more please!” as well “I’m good. Thanks.” Finally, gestures and offerings were made to appease Buddhism’s Hungry Ghosts, a concept representing beings driven by intense emotional needs in an animalistic way. In other words, the goading, unconsciousness desires we all share, uncomfortable inner urges that meditation practice helps disarm.

Well-known for its rigorous training methods, the bleakness, the blackness of Rinzai Zen practice goes beyond the dark robes of traditional Zen garments. There’s an austerity to Zen ceremony on a soul level, a gloominess, a sullenness, a just-you-and-your-mind-and-the-grind-grind-grind –on- the-cushion vibe. The bell ring three times and there’s nowhere to run to baby, nowhere to hide, as you’re left to contemplate your own inner chaos for ongoing, hour-long stretches of time in the voluntary cell of your tiny square Zabuton, hopefully cushioning aching ankles and knees. The good news, the Gospel according to The Buddha, is that standing your ground and wrestling with your psyche for a few hours opens the gates for a sweet Samadhi to arise, a trance of stillness or one-pointedness of mind that has one totally sensorial aware of the present moment. This stability of the intrinsic mind, this psychic grounding, is the mind-state writer’s like Jack Keroauc described as “feeling the ripples of birth and death… like the action of the wind on a sheet of pure, serene, mirror-like water… a sweet, swinging bliss.”

On an even more personal note, the return to Haku Un Ji was a triumphant one. Living in Arizona from 1998-2006, the Center was a place of refuge during my wild, wild west days, a time when I engaged in regular psychic gun battles with my well-armed demons in fights for my spiritual footing. Back then, I was lucky enough to partake in Kōan practice with my Teacher Shinzen’s Teacher - Kyozan Joshu Sasaki Roshi Joshu, a Zen Master who passed in 2014 at the age of one hundred and seven. Considering a Koan is a story, dialogue or question answered intuitively and designed to test a Zen student's progress, I’m not sure I ever answered one correctly. That said, I did find myself standing on my head with my shirt off in the Roshi’s presence once, which excited both him and Shinzen, who I later recounted the experience to. “That’s great, that’s how he can really get inside of you!" commented Shin. 

Half-exhausted but happily abiding in the pure land of practice Saturday morning, listening to a recorded Teisho, or Zen teaching of the Roshi's, his words, with renewed significance, found their way back inside. “The story of Buddhism is the story of a loving couple" he grumbled in Japanese, a translator conveying the colorful imagery.  "It is the story of the masculine and feminine coming together in a cooperative effort of perfect accord to give birth to the world. Plus and minus, negative and positive, expansion and contraction. The man gives a perfect gift to the woman, and where is the complaint? (laughter)". With hands in Gassho, at heart-center, a deep bow.