For two months now, I’ve been sitting on a fence.

It doesn’t look like a fence.

In fact, what it looks like is the entrance to a comfortable family living room containing a small group of honest, sincere, dedicated people who are the living definition of “spiritual friends.”

I think this group is the real McCoy, and I’m comfortable in it.  I want to be one of these spiritual friends because I could like and relate to these folks.

I’ve even been invited to come on in and take part, make myself at home.

So what does it mean that I’m sitting here on my fence, dithering, eyeing the one side with a certain admiration and longing, yet casting anxious glances toward the exit on the other side?

I’m not normally a wishy-washy person.  Normally I think; I decide; I do.

Not this time.

This time around, I’m like those squirrels we see out here in the suburbs, trying to get across the road with cars coming in both directions; have you come across them?  They get half-way out into the road, and then they suddenly screech to a halt, trying to decide which way to go while the cars bear down on them from both sides.  It’s a pure wonder that most of them manage to make it across or back in one piece!

So, Susannah, what’s the hold-up here, anyway?

I’ve been sitting on that question for awhile now.

Okay, here’s the thing (I think):

I became a Buddhist because Shakyamuni Buddha’s bottom line was something I could relate to.  He said (and I’m paraphrasing something awful here) “Don’t believe in me; try out what I’m telling you and find out for yourself.”

This advice was repeated centuries later in another country when a wise man said something to the effect of, “When you see a finger pointing to the moon, look at the moon, not the finger!”

Being a born do-it-yourselfer, this was music to my ears.  It’s not the messenger, but the message that’s important.  And meditation was the way to internalize the message.

Now, it seems, there are actually two main ways to practice Buddhism.

There’s the way that Shakyamuni Buddha appears to have proposed, the do-it-yourself way (my preferred modus operandi ever since I can remember) that appealed to me (naturally).

And then there’s a second track that I didn’t know about, which was apparently created/discovered/ resurrected when the Mahayana tradition began [go easy here; the ducks aren't all in a row yet.]:  the don’t-bother-doing-it-yourself, instead-have-faith way, attributed to someone called Amitabha or Amida Buddha.  It seems that all I have to do is call on Amida Buddha every day and do lots of chanting, and I’ve got my ticket into the Pure Land.  [As you can see, I've still got alot to learn about Pure Land.]

I’m comfortable with multiple Buddhas; after all, the word buddha simply means “awakened one,” and there are surely bunches of these beings around.  But how, exactly, is this different from the Christian “I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father, but through me” (John 14:6)?

So is this Amidism thing, to put it bluntly, some kind of watered-down Buddhism for errant Christians (with a different titular head) or for Buddhists who may be looking for an easier way than trudging through the meditation path?

Following my usual pattern, I’ve gathered a bunch of books to help me through this issue.  They’re sitting in a pile on my desk:

Finding our True Home (Living in the Pure Land Here and Now), by Thich Nhat Hanh
The New Buddhism, by David Brazier
Not Everything is Impermanent (Zen Therapy and Admidist Teachings of David Brazier), by David Brazier
Sukhavati – Western Paradise (Going to Heaven as Taught by the Buddha), by Wong Kiew Kit
The Feeling Buddha, by David Brazier

and – just to provide some balance,
Godless Morality (Keeping Religion Out of Ethics), by Richard Holloway

[If there appears to be a preponderance of books by David Brazier, also known as Dharmavidya, well, it only seems fair, since he's the founder of the order to which the sangha of my conundrum is attached.]

My task this summer will be to try to make sense of all this new information so that I can finally get off the fence.  From where I stand at the moment, it looks like a bit of a long haul.

Truth is, at this point I think I’m coming to a place of believing that religion in any form is a game where I may want to gather up my toys and just go home.   Does that make me an agnostic?  Well, if my definition of agnosticism is correct, and agnostics believe that the existence of God cannot be proven or disproven  –-

Christian Zealot:  God loves you and everyone. He will save you
Agnostic: Prove it.

Atheist: There is no way that a god can exist.
Agnostic: Prove it.

–  then I’m no agnostic, because I absolutely do not dispute the existence of something greater than our tiny, insignificent egos, proof or no.  I may not know what to call it, but I am sure as hell aware of it!

Here’s the sum total of what I know, from my own life experience (been there, done that):

·        I have felt “accompanied” since I was a tiny child, which may be one reason why I’ve never been truly lonely in my life.  No, I don’t see spirits, or angels, or whatever.  I don’t know what to call it; I only know it’s there and has been as far back as I can remember.

·        Meditation (a gift of my brief Tibetan Buddhist training) has been a source of self-awareness and learning for me.  Not easy lessons, no.  But so very, very worthwhile.

·        Over the years, my heart has grown.  I try to walk in other people’s shoes before I judge.  I often fail.  But I try.

·        I have found good qualities in everyone I’ve ever met, no matter whether or not I particularly “liked” them.  Therefore, it seems appropriate to think that goodness is a quality that every single person on the planet possesses, no matter how much that quality might have atrophied or the yang aspect, evil, might prevail.  (How to deal with all the ramifications of this, however, is likely a subject for another lifetime.)

These days, I’m beginning to feel a closer connection to the poets of the world than to the “thinkers,” because poetry can encompass the longing we can feel for the beyond, the ecstasy of those numinous moments in our lives.  Poetry uses the vocabulary of the heart, not the head.

Stop the words now.
Open the window in the center of your chest,
and let the spirits fly in and out.
~Rumi

Somewhere around the eighth grade, we had to learn by heart a poem by nineteenth-century British poet James Hunt entitled “Abou Ben Adhem.”  Trite as it may be considered today, it made a lasting impression on me, and I can still recite it a half-century later.

Here it is:

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
“What writest thou?”—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

~ James Henry Leigh Hunt

Hmm.   “Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”
Maybe that’s enough for tonight….

Namaste,
Susannah

The first few days after someone close to you passes away, you are in a state of shock and denial. I experienced similar emotions, when my mother passed away within a year after my father. But with so many visitors and so many things to attend to, we had to put on a brave front and pretend to go on as usual.

On one such day I was assigned some chores to be done in the neighboring shopping area. I finished the task early and was waiting to be picked up, when suddenly I had this urge to visit an old, used books’ shop close by, that I often frequented in my younger days.

After reaching there, I was drawn to a cover-less book. I opened it and, lo! it opened to the page where my favorite poem lay,”Abou Ben Adhem”!. I cannot describe the joy I experienced at that moment, in spite of the tragedy I had recently experienced. I bought it immediately.

The days that followed, till the 13th day when the shanti puja was done, were so busy that I completely forgot about the book. I was back in Pune but somehow, I never got a chance to take a thorough look at it.

Within a few months I decided to attend the Vedanta lectures. I gathered from a classmate that they study essays from a book by Swami Parthasarthy. Somehow I felt drawn to check my so far abandoned book, and to my astonishment, it was the same book, ”The Eternities- Vedanta Treatise”.

I felt so blessed ,as if I was guided to buy this book in preparation for the class I was meant to attend a few months later. And what better way to compel me to buy it than tempting me with my long cherished poem by James Henry Leigh Hunt.

Abou Ben Adhem
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou?” The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord
Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”

The Angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And, lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest!

– James Henry Leigh Hunt

Sheitaal

My dad was someone who could quote poetry seemingly for any occasion imaginable. He told me and my brothers and sisters that he learnt most of his poetry when he was at school in the highlands of Scotland.  The school was Boultach School and his teacher I only ever heard him refer to as Rachael.  She must have had an incredible impact on my father. Poetry was one of the things he turned to in his final years.

When he was no longer able to read because of poor eyesight he enjoyed having the newspaper read to him and he loved listening to poetry.  He had his favourites and when we visited we would read the poems to him and he would be able to recite sections of the poems if not all.

This poetry book I have chosen for my A-Z Book Challenge is a book we gave to dad for Fathers’ Day when he was 94. Many of the poems in this book were favourites of his and there are many in this book that are favourites of mine.

Here are just some of the titles included in the book.

Click on the picture of the titles to see them in larger print.  Are any of your favourites there? You can check out the book here where you can view a full list of the poems included in the book.

Here are some of my favourites: Cargoes, Abou Ben Adhem,The King’s Breakfast, Stop all the clocks, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, This Be The Verse.  The last poem mentioned I used when I was teaching reluctant high school students and provided a great starting point for discussion on poetry for those who had no love for poetry at all.  The poem was written by Philip Larkin who was offered the position of Poet Laureate but declined.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
“What writest thou?”—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

Abou Ben Adhem - James Henry Leigh Hunt (19 October 1784 – 28 August 1859 / Southgate, London)

Courtesy http://calligraphy-uk.com/2011/02/875/abou_ben_adhem_uk600/

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
“What writest thou?”—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

- James Henry Leigh Hunt

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• Nifty Universe Abou Ben Adhem (niftyuniverse.com)
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• Remove Your Mask (americankabuki.blogspot.com)
• Hands of Peace (conjecturesguilty.wordpress.com)
• Prayer (fixingbroke.com)
• A Call to Live (runtherace.org)

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again, with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And, lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest!

Abou ben Adhem, written in 1834 by Leigh Hunt, was my mother’s favorite poem.