The Beautiful Answer

On Compassion

I ran into an interesting conundrum today, involving something that’s seldom thought of as controversial: compassion. Most people think of compassion as us being nice. It’s the ability to feel something for other people, their lives and situations. We feel compassion for people in Japan or Haiti when they’re lives are turned upside down by natural disasters, or those babies who need cleft palate surgery in television. 

That’s only part of the story, though. 

Compassion is that feeling of deep connection with other people, that sense that we do truly want the same things. Often, it will come to us in a flash, when we’re least expecting it, even for people we wouldn’t ordinarily like, such as the Kardashians. We think — what could I possibly have in common with those self-important, overly entitled idiots? 

You’re both people; you have families. You will both live and die, struggle, love and be sick. You share the same air, and the same concerns. You both want to be loved.

And this is how compassion grows. 

The famous teaching most Buddhist teachers give about compassion is of a woman who has mistakenly dropped her baby into a river and watches helplessly, in anguish, as the baby is carried away in the current. She’s frantic with worry about the baby’s wellbeing and safety, of course, but it’s the helplessness that takes it deeper. 

We can’t always change everything. We can think about it, we can take action and try. But sometimes, things will drift away from us. Friendships die, even if we still like the person in question. Jobs are lost and found. We travel and change our perspective by looking at the world from a slightly different angle. We change, in small or large increments, never forgetting that we are human, just like others, with the same forces connecting us. How beautiful that is. 

Sometimes Dreams Aren’t Subtle

Last night I dreamed of the Dalai Lama, for the first time in my life. Though I’ve studied Buddhism for the past 16 years, he hasn’t made a single appearance in my subconscious, even though some part of me might have found that comforting. 

In the dream, my husband and I were in my car. I was driving, and we were with a lot of other cars, inching into a crowded stadium parking lot. We were going to some sort of event, when all of a sudden, I saw a black car next to ours, on my left. I noticed a man get out of the car and stand by the side as the traffic inched along. He was wearing a rust colored sweater over maroon colored robes that fell to the ground, and had a bald head. I told my husband that it was the Dalai Lama, and all of a sudden he turned to face me and I saw that it really was.

Without thinking, I put the car in park and got out r to approach him. In real life, the Dalai Lama is probably at the very top of the list of people I’d like to meet. I don’t care too much about actors and sports figures, though I have my favorites.

In the dream, the Dalai Lama turned to me and I said my name was Alyson and that I’d always wanted to meet him. He smiled warmly and said he was happy I’d come. We continued to walk alongside the cars. I kept looking right and left, worried that someone might try to hurt him (his security is always very tight), but he was relaxed and open. I asked my husband to get back in the car so we wouldn’t back up traffic and he went back. I told the Dalai Lama that I had always wanted to go to Dharamsala but hadn’t had a chance yet and he said I would have to come, that it was beautiful and we would have tea. We kept walking and talking, discussing the various movies that had been made about Tibet, some of which his own life had been dramatized. Then we were in a backstage area, where people were rushing around getting ready for the show. He touched my arm and said he had to go now, but he was glad I came. 

As he moved away from me, disappearing into the crowd, I realized I would have to go back and find my husband so I could see the talk, a musical performance, and then a screening of a new movie about Tibet. Arto Lindsay and another guy were playing nearby and being filmed, so I realized I would have to jump over the fence. I hurtled over one and then another and another before I realized I couldn’t get out that way. So I had to climb back over the third fence, getting nails stuck in my gray cashmere sweater (someone had made homemade razor wire to keep people form jumping the fence in the first place). Then I woke up. 

Sometimes, dreams aren’t subtle. I have a pretty big meeting scheduled for Monday. I had begun to feel a little anxious about it (not hugely, but still), and voila, a dream about the Dalai Lama, who seems to be himself so effortlessly, all welcoming and compassionate, yet also sharply intelligent and devoted to living his life for the alleviation of suffering. I want to do that as well, in my own way, as much as I can. I’m sure I can and will take a page from his book before Monday, and try to be half the person he is when my time comes. 

On Patience

You’ve never seen so many impatient people until you’ve either seen a Dalai Lama talk in person, or stood in a virtual “line” with others waiting to see a talk streamed live over the Internet. In person, you’re put through more security checks than at any given airport (sad but true that many would like to see the man dead), and if you’re waiting virtually, same deal. It’s not that you’re the one being put through all the security. You’re waiting for those who are, and that means that seldom do one of these things go off on time. 

The Dalai Lama is currently Long Beach, California, giving talks about how to keep your peace of mind in troubling times. How to stand your ground without becoming too dug in about it, and how to extend kindness to others, even when you may be feeling groundless and uncertain about your own existence. Worth it, no?  Especially when it’s free over the Internet. 

The problem became evident almost immediately. I haven’t had much luck with UStream in the past (many call it UScream instead, for the amount of frustration it engenders), and after an hour, we were told that there were still hold ups with people moving through security at the event. An hour and fifteen minutes passed, then an hour and a half, and finally the talk got started. In that time span, I did some writing and filing, got caught up on email, and just waited quietly for the talk to begin. A few times, I glanced over to the scrolling list of comments, where most were acting as if this were somehow ruining their lives, their days, their entire incarnations. Some wanted an apology (Huh? For a free event?), some wanted to blow off steam. The level of vitriol was what was most surprising. But a few things seemed true from my standpoint. 

Was it frustrating? Absolutely. Could it have been avoided? Maybe, maybe not. Did anyone on the other end of that owe any of us anything? Not really. 

They did the best they could, and if nothing else, it was a good excuse to practice with patience, which we could all probably use. 

Namaste, Bitches

If I hear one more person tell me how their one true spiritual way can help me, or describe how lost they think I am, meanwhile standing on my doorstep and keeping me from, say, doing constructive things in my life, I may have to scream. And I’ve got some lungs on me. 

What is it about spirituality that makes each of us feel that only we understand? That only we have the answer, or have found the true way that everyone should follow? 

How can something as incredibly personal as how we worship, who we worship and what we believe to be accurate, be interrupted by such misguided opinions? 

Maybe there’s fundamentalism in everyting we do. I’ve seen people get beaten up over which sports team they were rooting for. Even as a pretty rabid basketball fan, I can’t imagine getting that way during or after a game. 

There’s fundamentalism in our beliefs about eating meat, or that using animals for clothing and shoes is murder, or that eating plants is healthy, but shooting drugs into our veins is fine. We all have our systems, in other words, the stuff that works according to the rules we set for ourselves. 

Maybe I’m never going to understand these folks who come to my door from time to time. I tried telling them I was a Buddhist the first time, thinking that would lump me in with the Satanists in their book. I tried telling them I was busy, that I was working and really didn’t want to talk about what they wanted to talk about — not now, not ever. I mean, would you just feel that you had the right to barge into someone’s office if you had a burning desire to talk about sports cars, or Paul Pierce, or Megan Fox’s pregnancy? You would not. Unless there’s something seriously wrong with you. 

Somehow, our spirituality is held so close, and comes to define us so much that to have it threatened in any tiny way is to threaten us. Our very marrow comes under scrutiny and we can’t stand that. So namaste, bitches. Tomorrow’s another day, and I’m gonna try to at least respect what you’re saying, even if I can’t wrap my mind around it. That’s just how I roll. 

Confessions of a Buddhist Psychic

I’ve always known I was a little “different.”

A vivid imagination and near photographic memory of my textbooks saved on hours of study, making it easier to pass tests in school. Finding creative excuses for why I’d done this, or failed to do that, were as simple as tuning in to the wildest impulses of my mind.

Spiritually, my explorations were all over the place as I was led by curiosity to the study of Buddhism. I was trained in Mahayana, sitting in traditional Tibetan style shamatha vippasana meditation for a minimum of 20 minutes per day, then 30 or more. Dozens of lectures, sutras, teachings and chants later, I was a Buddhist, trying not to cling to the idea of being anything at all.

But when I found myself jobless in Los Angeles, I landed a job as a phone psychic, using my scant knowledge of tarot cards to gain the position. Far from being a haven for out-of-work actors or charlatans drunk on woo-woo juice, I found myself surrounded by gifted intuitives, each with his or her own area of specialty.

I soaked it up like a sponge.

Read the rest here, on Elephant Journal. 

Champions

“Love is like quicksilver in the sand. Leave the fingers open and it stays. Clutch it, and it darts away.” 

— Dorothy Parker 

I’m reminded of this quote today, and the beautiful impermanence of our lives. Let us love deeply and fiercely, and become champions at this human emotion than makes our existences so worth continuing. 

Let it be. 

Let it be. 

Let it be. 

Check Yo’self

I never do this, but I picked on fight on Facebook today. Sometimes, I stop by this Buddhist group I’m familiar with (sometimes I go there and mediate in L.A., and I once organized a benefit for their centers), and often there are spirited conversations about how to live by Biddhist ideals in a modern and non-monastic way. 

There I found a woman who was reeling because her own views of life not existing after death had been called into question when she’d met up with a medium at a party, who said she had a message for the woman from her dead daughter. According to the woman, she said things no one else could have known, and was just looking for perspective about it. Of course, I am a professional intuitive, so I offered my feelings and thoughts, especially since I, too, have struggled with not the life after death question, but other related questions linking psychics and Buddhist thought. 

Halfway down the comment thread, as a group of us went back and forth, I was told that mediums don’t exist (apparently that means I don’t exist, either), that there was not a shred of empirical evidence that they do what they say they do. 

Um, check please. 

One of the things I love about Buddhism is that it involves watching the mind and our preconceived (i.e., unmindful) ways of thinking and being. One of these, I have found, is our unconscious prejudices, against certain races, fat people, people with breast implants, people who don’t go to college. You name it, there’s someone (maybe even us) who has a prejudice about it. So when I politely urged this person to maybe examine his built-in prejudices against people of the psychic variety, he got angry and dismissed me, then kind of ignored my next several posts. 

Also, he happens to be wrong about the empirical evidence. There have been numerous studies done at universities such as Stanford for decades now, which prove ESP, remote viewing and other forms of psychic and metaphysical abilities. 

Again, I never do this. Most of the time, if someone says something ignorant, I am not the person in the room who feels that it’s my duty to point it out to them. But this time, I couldn’t take it. I mean, seriously? You’re going to tell an entire group of people THEY DON”T EXIST, just because you don’t believe in what they do (God forbid you be uncomfortable in any way), or the abilities they may or may not have?  Um, check yo’self before you wreck yo’self, son. 

We ALL have these places, where we harbor internalized prejudice. If I were a black person instead of a psychic, so you think anyone (well, maybe a few ignorant ones, but you know what I mean) would find it acceptable to blindly hate? Not on your life. We all owe it to ourselves, and the people we touch, to dig out these little blind spots we all carry, and release them so they can be transformed into something more than ignorance and hatred. 

Man, I hate that shit. 

Love It, Need It, Have to Have It

As I move closer and closer to the release of my new book, time seems to be doing some pretty weird things. Not that I get too caught up in what that means. Time has always seemed pretty elastic to me, and since I work with energy every day, it’s become even more so as the years have gone by. 

Some days, it seems like I don’t have enough time. Not enough to get everything done. Too many emails to return, too many articles to write, and so many events to be planned in the future. 

Other days, it seems like I’ll never leave the interval of hours that comprise a day. Readings and energy work sessions seem longer, the right words aren’t coming, and I just want to dunk my head in the nearest bucket of get me the fuck out of here. 

So to work with all that back and forth, I tried reframing during my meditation session today, seeing how it felt to combine the two disciplines. In watching my thoughts and feelings arise, I noticed and welcomed them, but then tried adjusting the lens of my perception to see them in a new way. Maybe a thought came up about an unpleasant memory, and I reframed it as a learning experience, then let it go. Then maybe I had a neutral thought and just watched it as I returned to my breath. Then another thought came, and another, and I have to admit that after 16 years of steady meditation practice, doing mostly vipassana, forgiveness practice and tonglen, I kind of liked it. 

Maybe there’s always gonna be that little voice in the back of my brain going, “love it, need it, have to have it,” whether that’s shoes, chocolate or books. Even on days when I want to give everything I have to the world, it’s hiding in some dark corner. Glad to know there’s a combo practice that can help me kick that shit to the curb. 

Love Ray Gun

I know. When you type it out like that, it sounds a little porny. But I have a pretty vivid imagination, and am always on the lookout for new ways to be playful with energy, to not buy into the tired old ways that many of us express our emotions. I mean, does everyone scream when they’re mad?  No. Some people steam, other people drink, while still others hug it out. 

It came to me when I was driving, as we so often do here in L.A. Some guy was riding my buper, even though I was in the slow lane, about to get off at the next exit. This type of behavior irritates me for the obvious reasons (which is that it just sucks), but also because it’s the epitome of greed. I mean, seriously? You’re so concerned with getting what you want right freaking now that you can’t, I don’t know, ease up a bit? After all, we were in bumper to bumper traffic. Not exactly the Indy 500. 

Luckily, I caught myself in the next moment. OK, so it was very little skin off my back, and who cares anyway, right? But I wanted to try something a little deeper. And for some reason, the image of a ray gun came into my mind, the ones you see all the time in cartoons blasting someone’s face off and leaving them in a cloud of ash. Then I loaded that baby up with some love pellets, planning to fire them behind me into the guy’s car. Hey, it could work, right? 

I’m sitting there giggling to myself, imagining firing away with these imaginary love pellets, and probably anyone who looked inside my mind at that moment might have thought that I was batshit crazy, but it made me laugh. I can’t be sure if this is what made him ease off my bumper in the next few minutes, but it made my commute a little easier, and a lot more fun. 

Anticipation

I read about this experiment today, in which a scientist tried to create the most viscous material ever. It was 1927 and the scientist was Thomas Parnell, a physics professor at the University of Queensland in Australia. He poured hot pitch into a glass funnel and then let it cool while his class of students waited for the results. In about eight years, yes eight years, the first drop fell. After nine more years, another drop finally separated itself from the others and made its way downward to join the first. 

That kind puts patience into perspective. 

Since 1927, a total of eight drops have fallen. What is the purpose of this, you ask? Why would someone purposely torture himself and his students by doing this? 

I like to think it’s uncertainty. We don’t know when the next drop will fall. Maybe also unpredictability. Think about it. In the wide open flow of time that makes up our lives, do we really ever know what’s going to happen? No. And if we did, we would never willingly choose to go through half the shit that comprises our human reality. It’s too painful, too messy and devoid of fun. 

If we’re being honest here, pretty much nothing is really in our control. And maybe it shouldn’t be. Maybe the beauty is in the surprise, the up and down of our emotions, the high of our highs and the low of our lows. Maybe it’s the anticipation that the very next moment of our lives could spin us in a completely new direction, an amazing and true direction, and that this in itself is pretty damn special indeed.